


Returning - Benedict Cumberbatch

by On_Errand_Bad



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF
Genre: Accidents, Columbia University, F/M, Gentle, Homelessness, Hurt/Comfort, London, Memory Loss, New York City, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Redemption, True Love, Writer mc, intimate sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:55:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 94,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29932362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/On_Errand_Bad/pseuds/On_Errand_Bad
Summary: When Holly Whitaker wakes up in Benedict Cumberbatch's London apartment, she believes she has been kidnapped. But she soon realizes that she is, in fact, married to the actor, and has lost five years of her memory. Will they be able to overcome this terrible challenge?
Relationships: Benedict Cumberbatch/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1: A Different Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holly Whitaker wakes up in an unfamiliar apartment...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings, all! This fanfic is one of the personal favorites that I've written, and is also published on ff.net under the username une-papillon-de-nuit. It was posted here under this same username some time ago as I was publishing it, but I had to take the account down. It's back now, though! I have written the story up to chapter 16, and will post those chapters here over the next little while, and then will start up the live updates again. I hope that you enjoy it, and that you've found your way back here if you were upset by my sudden disappearance a few months ago!

**Chapter 1: A Different Life | Year: 2020**

I wake up without an alarm, in one of those miasmic, half-sleep stupors that usually start off a bad day. I mutter to myself a little bit, noticing the clock on the wall just beyond the expanse of the bed—7 in the morning, half an hour shy of when my alarm is set to go off. So, I roll over a little, determined to get back to sleep and hopefully get a better start to the day ahead. I have an important test to take in Professor Hauer's Chemistry class, which will be brutal, and will no doubt require the best attitude I can muster. But just as my eyelids grow heavy again and the pillow seems to sink beneath my head, my mind registers something... off. And with a sudden start that clears away the sleep from my eyes in a snap, and sets my heart racing inside my chest, I sit up on the bed.

I am not in my dorm room. My friend Alex is nowhere in sight, and the clock I'd noted the time on is analog, one I've never seen before in my life. I'm sitting on a giant king-sized bed, tangled up in white sheets, in a completely unrecognizable room. But the strangest thing about my sudden predicament is... the scent. I know I recognize it from somewhere... as though from a dream... but I can't name it. It's partly like a very good cologne, coffee and paper, and an array of other nameless good-smelling things that might make me smile if I wasn't so terrified. It is, I am almost positive, the scent of a man.

My body spurred into action by my totally unfamiliar surroundings, I get up from the bed, stumbling and almost slamming into the hardwood floor with my leg in a twist of blankets. Hurried, I try to think, whirling around. This is absolutely not right, that much I know, and there's something terribly hazy in my head that makes me wonder whether I'd allowed my best friend Alex to get me into trouble last night. Maybe I'd been drugged... maybe I was in some house with some crazy man who was going to appear at any second from around a corner with a chainsaw...

I try to think of what the girl in the kidnapping movie with the feel-good ending would do, but all my brain can muster are images of a blood-splattered Patrick Bateman. I have to practice breathing exercises in order to keep from fainting, which, I'm sure, would be the worst possible action on my part at the moment if I'm planning on figuring out where I am and escaping in one piece.

As soon as my mind clears I see that most of the wall opposite the bed is covered by curtains (my favorite shade of blue, but that's not important right now), and I hurry over to them, pulling them open. It's a surprise at first that they come open at all, since I was expecting for them to be a trick, or nailed to the wall by my captor. But that initial surprise of their freeness is quickly overtaken and bested (in a terrible way) by what I actually see outside the window itself...

My throat constricts and I swear I feel my heart stop beating for a solid five seconds as I look out over the north bank of the river Thames, the Palace of Westminster, Big Ben clocktower and London Eye all visible to me in an early morning fog. I stare with bulging eyes, hammering my fist against my chest to get myself to breathe again—in gasps, albeit—and now, as I look around the apartment again, I realize that, somehow, I have become trapped inside what is shaping up to be a luxury apartment, in London, England no less, and I have no idea how I got there.

To keep myself from fainting yet again, I have to turn away from the startling view and steady myself against the wall. On one of the bedside tables—for there is one on each side of the bed—I notice, for the first time, what looks like a script marked up with pencil, and on the bedside table on the other side, closest to me, a phone charging.

The first thing I notice when I hurry over to it is that it looks much more advanced than any phone I've ever owned, and wonder for just a second just how wealthy my kidnapper is, but I don't have the time to stand around being impressed. I turn it on and try—because, really, what else am I supposed to do—to unlock it using my password. Of course it doesn't work. I want to chuck it against a nearby wall, but there's always a chance that someone will happen to call it and I could plea for help... The first thing to keep me from unleashing my anger upon it, though, is the sight of the time and date on the lock screen.

17 July, 2020, it reads. I blink for a moment, but then come to the conclusion that this must just be another twisted trick done by my captor to confuse and discourage me. But I'm not about to give up that quickly. On one wall in this huge luxury bedroom there are two doors: one that leads into a bathroom that looks giant and expensive, and another one that I am sure will lead out into the rest of the apartment. But before I go through the second one, I'm going to have to get myself in order, keep my mind alert, and not allow myself to sink into hopelessness.

I swipe away some tears which have fallen without my noticing, and then brace myself against the wall again, telling myself over and over the things that I know are fact. My name is Holly Whitaker. I am eighteen years old. I am a student at Columbia University in New York City, U.S.A. The date is October 9, 2015. My name is Holly Whitaker. I am eighteen—

But before I can continue and work myself into the true state of mental stability I'd been hoping to achieve, I hear a sound from somewhere else in the apartment: the distinctive sound of a door being opened and closed. I'm sure it's the front door my captor's just come in, because right after it shuts, I hear the sound of keys being set down somewhere, probably on a countertop, and the sound of other things being set down, what sounds like groceries in paper bags.

Quickly I understand that right now, at this instant while my kidnapper is distracted, I have to make my move, and get out of here as quickly as I possibly can. The fact that I haven't the slightest idea of the apartment's layout, and the fact that I might walk out the door and come face to face with the person I'm trying to escape, is not lost on me. But I also know if I act now, I'll have a better chance than I would if I waited for him to come back into the room... and I don't even want to think about what might happen to me if I wait that long.

So, more silent than I've ever been before in my entire life, I tiptoe to the door leading into the rest of the apartment, and turn the handle, peering out with relief into a hallway separated from the kitchen—where my captor is still making noise with the bags and groceries—and slip out into it, keeping my tiny body flush to the wall as I creep forward, not daring to breathe.

Before the door into the kitchen, there's another room, a sitting room with a whole bunch of bookshelves holding what looks like a very expensive collection of books, many of them significantly old. There's also a giant television and a huge collection of DVDs, a record player and a loveseat surrounded by a number of pretty lamps. It's empty of people and so I stick my head in, hoping to see a way out of the apartment, but the room is a dead end. Along the hallway there are a number of other rooms, some of which I peek into, but I know that the only other person in the apartment—unless there are other young women and girls stuck in the locked rooms along the opposite side of the hall, which is a thought so terrible I have to turn it away lest I pass out—is in the kitchen, and thus deduce (with a wave of pale dread) that the best way out will be through a door accessed by the kitchen.

I mouth curses to myself as I continued to go quietly along the hallway, whose hardwood, thank the gods, doesn't give up a single creak beneath my light weight. And soon enough I come to the open passage that connects the hall to the kitchen, and peek with great caution around the corner, to look in.

My captor is wearing a mask over the bottom half of his face, so I can't see much of him, but that he is much taller than my own five foot two form, at least six feet in height, and would be able to overtake me very easily in a fight, given his lean but muscular build. He's wearing what look like very nice and expensive clothes, dapper dark grey pants and a dark blue shirt that showcases the muscles of his forearms. Seeing his clothes makes me look down at my own clothes, which are different than the ones I usually wear, a pair of cotton shorts and a loose-fitting tank top. I shudder a little at the image of my captor changing my clothes... but then I get back to the business of escaping.

He's focused on spraying off his groceries with a disinfectant bottle, and I notice with dismay that the only way to the front door will be across the kitchen—right past him—and down a short turn, past a coat closet. I am confident that, if he doesn't change his position or angle at all for at least thirty seconds, I will be able to get around the kitchen island and into the little hall to the door without being detected. And even if that is successful by some miracle, there's still a high likelihood that there will be some complication added to getting out of the door itself...

But I can't focus on that now. I have to believe that, if I can just get to that damned door, I will be able to access a hallway, from where I'll catch an elevator or locate some stairs. If I don't believe that in this pivotal moment, then I'll certainly be lost, and he could kill me... or do other terrible things to me...

Motivated by what I'm determined not to let myself fall victim to for the second time in my life, I make a snap decision which I hope will save me, and I stoop down and venture into the kitchen, moving slowly across the wall and then separating myself from the masked man using the kitchen island. My slapdash plan seems to be going well until I turn the corner of the island and press myself against the opposite wall, peeking out to ensure that I still have a safe angle to dash for the door without being seen by him. That blessed door—which I can now see, like a beacon of hope, and without any visible extra locks or systems attached to it, at the end of the hall.

But I've picked the wrong moment to peek at him, and for a split second, his face's profile—obstructed in part by the mask—is turned toward me, and I see his eyes dart out to the corners, noticing me in his peripheral vision. In that split second, though, his head doesn't turn to look at me directly, and I pull my own face back behind the island, just sitting there in a ball, my knees curled up to my chest, frozen, praying that he didn't see me though I know it's foolish to do such things, not knowing what to do, being totally inactive and not at all like the heroic kidnapped girl who saves herself in the thriller movie and hating myself for it.

Silent tears actually roll down my cheeks as I sit there, feeling the hope drain from my body as though some invisible vein that holds it has been sliced open. My captor does some more rustling with the bags and I wonder if he actually didn't notice me... or if he's only so aware of my helplessness that he's choosing not even to acknowledge me. The thought only makes me more depressed and the tears flow so quickly and with such heat and urgency now, that they literally pop out of my eyes. I keep wondering about how he probably knows I'm here, and how he probably knows that if he just keeps on his business long enough, I'll become a coward and slink back to the room where I'd woken up. Maybe he'd left that door unlocked in the first place just to demonstrate his power, to let me know he knew how weak I was—

"Got you!"

Like a jack in the box, I spring up from the ground and scamper back from him, who had just jumped around the corner to surprise me in my pitiful hiding place. I scamper backward until my back presses right against a cabinet and I have absolutely nowhere to go, literally cornered in his kitchen. I try not to look horrified, and to appear at least a little bit brave instead, though I'm terribly intimidated by his size and height (don't think of your father. Don't think of that bastard—he's the last thing you need right now).

I shudder and close my eyes a little, expecting for him to seize me and beat me or suffocate me, but he does nothing of the sort. Instead, his eyes—vibrantly blue over the black mask he wears—crinkle, as though in playfulness, and he sighs, chuckling lightly. "Oh, sorry," he says, his voice deep and almost warm despite the terror that he inflicts upon me without even laying a finger on me. "Were you trying to surprise me?"

And then... he takes his mask off, and sets it on the island countertop. I almost don't notice his next words as I'm caged by his face... the recognition of it, which comes after a minute of delay. He seems to notice my tears, and he half-frowns in a gentle way, chuckling a bit, rubbing his upper lip as he says, "Did I scare you?" with a reluctant smile that, in any other situation, would suggest that he was a man of severe kindness.

But all of that runs through my mind in the background; in the foreground, I'm just trying to wrap my head around why it's him who's standing in this luxury kitchen, why it's a bedroom in this apartment... with him in it... that I've just woken up in, having no idea how I got here. I know his face from my best friend and Columbia roommate Alex's computer and phone screen; know him from movie posters and big screen productions that Alex has dragged me along to see, know him from the fronts of gossip and fashion magazines... Sherlock Holmes on Sherlock. Khan in Star Trek: Into Darkness. Alan Turing in The Imitation Game...

And I feel the blood train from my face as the name finally comes to me through the fog of my absolute shock: Benedict Cumberbatch.

The cray, adrenaline-pumped part of me wants to laugh out loud at the whole irony of this. That I, roommate to the one and only Alexandra Bailey, who I think could probably place in a contest of the most hard-core Cumberbitches alive, would somehow find myself in his London apartment with no clear purpose or reason, is the most ironic scenario I could ever think up. There's no excitement in it for me whatsoever—in fact, the fact that I recognize his face as being that of a well-known actor is no consolation at all. I've never been insane about him, and the only reason I really know him is through Alex in the first place. Besides, his fame and money give him what I'm sure is a great opportunity to do with me as he pleases and then make me... subtly... disappear.

So, my terror isn't diluted at all when he removes his mask, and I shrink further against the corner, waiting for the inevitable end to come.

I'm much smaller than he is, only five feet and two inches, while he towers over me at six feed and whatever measurement of height his shoes add. I come up to just below his shoulder in my bare feet, and despite the friendly curiosity in his gaze that is entirely unbefitting to this situation, I'm absolutely terrified by his body. He seems not to completely notice this, though, and rather smiles at me and raises his eyebrows, as though we're playing some sort of a game together—a game I'm not at all privy to.

"You slept in later than usual," he says to me with the same considerate look on his face, as he had when he first noticed the tears on my cheeks. This, I understand immediately, is a very strange statement for two reasons. Firstly, I never wake as early as seven in the morning, as all my classes are scheduled later in the day. Secondly, how would he know how late I usually sleep in? I can only look at him with my own eyebrows furrowed, and shake my head a little from side to side. This makes him chuckle and smile again for whatever strange reason. I'm so shocked and high on adrenaline that though he's smiling and seems like a genuinely friendly person, I know that there is something very wrong with me being here, or otherwise something very wrong with me, period.

"I'm so sorry I made you cry," he says, stepping forward a little, closing in around me cautiously. His hand reaches out and I can't even flinch away from surprise, a deer caught in the headlights as his thumb—broad and large against my cheekbone—brushes away one of my tears and his body closes more of the distance between his and mine. "Look, I'm serious, I didn't think you'd get so surprised," he laughs, with a kind smile stretching his lips—which, I must admit, are attractive, though this fact doesn't dampen my terror even a little bit.

He appeals to me with such a casual nature that one would think we had known each other for years, and as he continues to wipe away my tears, looking right into my eyes with his blue ones with some strange emotion that's almost like endearment, I start to believe more and more that I must be the one in the wrong here... something must be wrong with me. This whole experience just feels like a giant head wound.

After working away my tears he steps forward again and leans into me a little, putting his arms around my shoulders and starting to pull my small body against his chest... And then the fight in me comes out, just a little bit, as I say very quietly, but loud enough to be heard, "Don't touch me."

Very quickly he steps back from me, putting his hands out, what looks a little bit like surprise and a little bit like understanding in his eyes. "You're right," he says, only making me stiffer as I push myself back into the cabinet as though I might be able to disappear into it if I try hard enough. "I should shower and put these clothes through the laundry. Never too careful, right? You know, this whole thing would be much less complicated if you would consent to having someone deliver everything to the door."

What I'd thought was terror before is nothing in the face of the absolute mortification that washes over my mind, now. I've always been a good judge of character and I can be absolutely sure at this moment that this man is not trying to lie to me or trick me in any way. This is someone who knows me, I am absolutely sure of it, and the fact that my mind perceives what he's saying as absolute nonsense only proves to me that it's me who is in the wrong... that something very, very bad has happened to me... and he understands what it is just as little as I do.

Something changes in his eyes as I realize this fact, and my face loosens, giving way to hopelessness, dropping the act of slight bravery which I'd managed to scavenge up and throw between myself and him a moment ago. "Are you alright, Holly?" he says to me, noticing the change in me. "Did you have a nightmare?"

I shake my head subconsciously and say with a break in my voice, which has been reduced to a hoarse whisper that I can barely hear, myself: "How do you know my name?"

He chuckles again, as though I'm making a joke. it's a chuckle I've heard before, a chuckle I, myself have uttered on some occasions. The chuckle you give to a friend or loved one when they've just made a joke they think is really funny but you know is absolutely lame. The pity chuckle. That's the chuckle he gives to me now. "Should I call somebody?" he says in a playful tone, stepping closer again and placing an arm against the cabinet, leaning in towards me (and it takes all my energy not to recoil just from his proximity). "Have you finally gone stir-crazy after all these months?"

"All... these... months?" I echo, my head whirling completely now. I haven't the slightest idea what he's on about, and I can feel down in my core that some center part of my reasoning, some center part of my mind or memory has been severely damaged, and I don't know how... I can't trust myself... My logic tells me I can't trust him, either... I have no idea what to do. Tears start to push forward into my eyes again and some fall before I can stop them. I look up at his face, blurred by the tears, and see a look of half-amusement and suppressed worry come into his blue eyes.

"Are you playing a game with me?" he says, lowering his voice and bringing his face closer to mine. I can feel his breath (fresh and comfortable in a strange way that my skin seems to remember) against my cheek as he speaks, lower and softer, almost in a seductive tone, bringing his mouth closer to my ear until he's whispering into it, wrapping his other arm around my waist and bringing me closer to his body in a gesture of comfort and familiarly that is totally lost on me and sends me reeling into a black hole of confusion and dread.

"I can play games, Holly," he says. "Tell me... what was my honeymoon gift to you?"

Out of the dregs of my reeling mind I manage to piece the word together again, echoing him in my smaller voice, feeling completely squeezed against the counter and his body, trying to think of anything at all but my father... the way he used to...

"Honeymoon?" I hear myself echo down a long tunnel, bewildered.

And it's then that he pulls back from me in stages, first taking his lips away from my ear to consider my face, then stepping away entirely, seeming to realize for the first time the true weight of the situation. And as I register the shock and confusion on his face, I, too, resurface to myself, coming back into my mind and body, the tears running even more now. In a helpless sort of way, my hands come up to my face of their own volition, and I start to sob into my palms, not wanting to look at him, knowing he's watching me, knowing for sure now that something is deadly wrong with me, with my behavior and my mind.

"Holly," he starts again, sending my mind whirling once more with his knowledge of my name. "Everything is okay. Just tell me what—"

And it's that which suddenly breaks me open again, breaks me open from the shell of terror and silence I've been stuck inside since I first woke up in that unfamiliar bedroom and realizes that something was very off about where I was, realized that it was London, not New York City, outside the giant bedroom window. And, now, suddenly, I find myself back in full force, back and terrified, and raising my voice as I shrivel into the corner of the kitchen, crying, out of control.

"No, everything is not okay. I'm sure I recognize you, and you seem like a very, very nice man, but... honeymoon?! I just... I just woke up on the bed in there, and I have no idea where I am, and how you know me, and how I know you... And I just need, I just need you to help me, okay? Please? Because I don't understand why I'm here, and why I'm in these clothes and in this apartment, which, I swear to God I've never seen before... and why the fucking London Eye is outside the window!"

The line of internal panic finally let out in words leaves me gasping for breath, and I feel like I might just tip over at any second from how overwhelming all of this is. He—Mr. Cumberbatch—seems extremely worried at my dizziness, and with a serious look of dire urgency and confusion on his face, he takes me by the elbow, very gently, and leads me with his powerful but gentle hands out of the kitchen and down the hall into the little sitting room I'd looked into earlier, where he sits me down on the loveseat and looks with a deep sincerity and concern into my bewildered eyes.

"Wait here," he tells me with a gentle sincerity, pressing me gently into the couch with one hand to make his point clear. "I'll be right back." And then with a last look of deep upsetness, as though he really wishes I would drop the act and become whatever the new normal me has become to him—but I remain the same, confused, reeling, angry at myself and at him, too, for not just telling me what's wrong with me. He turns to go after a beat, and I hear his footsteps receding down the hall a little ways, and turning into another room, perhaps back into the kitchen. After a moment, I hear his voice coming from down the hall, hushed, and I can tell he's calling someone on the phone.

Of course I'm not just going to sit here dumbly on the love seat, so I stand up and creep to the door, listening in to what I can make out of his conversation. His voice trembles as he speaks, and I hear only snippets, but revealing ones. "Memory loss? ...Are you sure? ...No idea... No, I think she recognizes me, but not from any in-person interactions... How am I supposed to know that... Confused about being in London, I think... Not five years... Oh, God..."

Choosing, for now, to ignore the thousand new tangents and rabbit holes of fear and bewilderment that his jumbled words send my brain racing down, I instead look out into the hall to make sure he isn't keeping watch, and then, finding it clear, head back into the bedroom where I'd woken up. From there, I go into the bathroom, feeling like I am probably about to be sick, and not wanting to do it all over the floor.

But I don't make it to the toilet. Because, before I can even fully enter the bathroom, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Or, at least, of what I know is supposed to be myself. I stumble further into the bathroom, catching my weight upon the edge of the counter and leaning in further to the mirror, as though I might fall right through it. I put my fingertips to my face, examining it, incapable of believing it all... Because, in a few minor ways that don't change me drastically, but are noticeable enough to me, I do not look like myself, like how I should. I still look quite young, and like I have for my life as a late teen and young adult, but it is clear that time has passed since I last went to sleep in my dorm back in New York.

Suddenly I recall the date and time I'd read on the phone lock screen upon waking up, in my initial panic. 17 July, 2020. Could it be true? Could five years really have passed, have just disappeared like that? This is absolutely insane, beyond insane, beyond belief. Oh, my God, what is wrong with me?

"Holly?" I hear the actor, Benedict, call from down the hall. A few moments later he enters the bathroom and I look at his reflection in the mirror, standing behind me, in absolute shock. My hands still clutch at the sink, and I can't stop looking at myself, analyzing ever minute change, unable to blink. He watches me, too, and I wonder distantly who he was on the phone with just now, whether he's called the police on me, whether I will be able to call Alex at some point, to get her to try and help me explain this whole ridiculous predicament.

But the first and most important thing on my mind is something I can't help asking him, despite how confused he, himself looks. I know that if my slow-forming theory of having somehow lost five years of my life is true, then he will at least be able to answer me this. So, swallowing my confusion and allowing my voice to work again, I turn around, facing him fully, and manage weakly: "How old am I?"

At the question, he stands stock still and stunned for a moment, and then, after shaking his head and scoffing in disbelief, but with a look in his eyes that tells me he knows I'm not lying about this whole thing, he pinches the bridge of his nose, I can tell, truly overwhelmed and suffering from a painful confusion of his own.

"I really don't know how to explain everything to you..." he says to both himself and to me. "How about this..."

He leads me again into the room full of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and sits down on the loveseat next to me, taking a laptop computer from a coffee table nearby. The computer is more slim than the computers I remember, and I have to remind myself that the big companies would have made many adaptations to thier products over five whole years, if it truly has been that long. He unlocks it—his fingers, tapered and smooth-looking but strong, which I can't help noticing, as though a love of his hands is a fragment I've lost over that half-decade of blankness—and then hands the laptop to me, gesturing to the search bar.

"Search yourself," he suggests, leaning back on the couch as though letting go of the situation, though he is still very much invested and involved, as he stares very darkly and intensely at my face as I type in my own name, Holly Whitaker, and press enter on the keyboard.

Instantly an entire flood of articles and links appear on the screen, but I am first drawn to my Google profile on the right side of the screen, which contains a number of quick-view images of me: both alone, and—stunningly—next to Benedict himself, in a fancy dress at some red carpet event or another, smiling for the camera in wickedly good makeup. All while feeling the real Benedict's eyes boring into me, analyzing my every reaction, I scroll down to read the information in the little profile box. An excerpt from a Wikipedia article informs me that I am a partner at a famous literary magazine and that I've won the Pulitzer prize. I scroll down further, to where other information on me is listed. My birth date and age, my place of birth, my height, my education (Columbia University), and my spouse, Benedict Cumberbatch.

Unable to do anything but stare blankly at the screen, I scroll up again, to where a row of recent articles involving me, with pictures showing myself and Benedict out walking down the streets, both wearing those strange masks he was wearing when he was first in the kitchen. The article titles include the word Coronavirus, which makes no sense to me and rather frightens me, but the one that catches my eye the most is the third in the row. That one makes me catch my breath.

I stare at it longer than I've ever stared at a single article title in my life. The arrow of the mouse hovers over it on the screen. And then, after a few moments of absolute shock, I look away from the screen, and down toward my still-flat belly, pressing a hand to my shirt. I manage to look to the side at Benedict, who looks at me with such sadness in his eyes that I know for sure this new development isn't only a rumor to attract readers...

And then, blue stars infringing upon my vision, and without any further warning, I pass out of consciousness.

* * *

"Okay. Let me get this straight," I say.

I came around about five minutes after passing out of shock, and now Benedict—who has insisted that I call him Ben—has brought me a cup of Chai, which he already knew was my favorite tea, and we are sitting beside each other on the love seat, trying to puzzle this entire mess out. Besides having lost five years of my life, as we're pretty sure that's what's happened, I feel better than I did a bit ago, and my mind is at least functioning enough for me to be receptive to what he has to say, and form words in return.

He nods in encouragement for me to continue. "So..." I venture, "I'm twenty-three years old. And we're a married couple."

"Yes," he says, in a measured, low tone, which I can't help but admire him for in this insane situation. My ears seem to remember his voice the more he speaks, and I have to admit it provides me with a little bit of comfort, even if I can't remember the reason why. "We've been married for two years. I know most of what there is to know about you, as you do me."

The part of me that's still in disbelief wants to test him, so, with the guise of being playful, I ask him a question, still trying to break out of this insane situation for all I'm worth, though I still know how stuck in it I really am, permanently. "Really?" I say, to his last statement. "What's my favorite book?"

"Anna Karenina," he says, at which I raise my eyebrows slightly. "Oh—wait," he says, then, "Wait..." And, with a snap of his fingers, "It was Great Expectations, wasn't it?"

And then my eyebrows fall again in defeat, because, number one, he's right, and number two, he just said was, which reminds me that we're actually five years into what my mind and memory consider the future, in the year 2020, where the Coronavirus is keeping us cooped up inside, and has done so since April. "This is going too fast," I admit to him, burying my face between my knees. And it's the absolute truth. Everything is insane, not to mention the fact that I'm... I'm... With his...

"Look," says Ben, taking the mug of tea from my hands, setting it on the coffee table, and taking both my small hands in his much larger, strong, gentle ones, looking into my eyes. "Let me prove myself to you. So, right now, you're still eighteen, in your head?"

"Yes."

"And you're attending Columbia."

"Yes."

"And your roommate is Alex Bailey?"

My eyes widen a little bit at the proof of his knowledge of me, but I don't express my shock verbally, only nodding my head to the affirmative, instead.

"And you're still going to be a doctor?"

"Yes. Wait... Still?!"

He flinches a little, catching his slip-up, but waves a hand slightly, squeezing mine with his remaining one. "We'll worry about that later. Look..." And his eyes intensify even more than before. "I know that you ran away from your father's house in New Jersey when you were still seventeen. I know that you went to New York and spent a year working to survive, living with your alcoholic aunt until your application to Columbia was accepted."

I nod my head as he truly reveals that he really does know most of what there is to know about me, facts that he could never pull out of the clouds, that I must have revealed to him at some point during those lost five years. And I can't help the tear that comes to my eye and spills over the rim onto my cheek at the memory of those hard times after I'd finally escaped my father's abuse only to encounter more trouble and difficulty... before that acceptance letter had come along and changed my life.

"But you still haven't met me, yet? Where your mind is?" says Ben, and with such great tenderness that I would like to embrace him—though this, I feel, somehow, is completely inappropriate, despite the fact that my body is pregnant with his child and has definitely (I blush at the thought) been in his bed—he brushes the tear away from my face with his thumb, as he had done in the kitchen.

I shake my head no in answer to his question, regretfully, as I truly feel that, who I have forgotten all of a sudden, had a great relationship with him, and an intimate and loving one, at that. it causes me pain, especially because of the sadness that comes into his eyes when I have to say, in honesty, "I've never seen you in my life. Well... in person."

He musters a little bit of a smile at that last part, and says, as though to prove himself beyond a doubt, "And your roommate, Alex, she's a little bit obsessed with my work?"

"More than obsessed," I scoff, brushing away another tear, "Yes." And I look over at him, into his honest eyes, wondering why this has happened to me... who I was before I forgot everything, and who he was to me, who I was to him... "So..." I say at length, "You really are telling the truth. This is all real."

He takes a moment, and then leans into me slowly, almost romantically, placing an arm all the way around my waist, startling me once again with his size when placed beside my small form, bringing my face close to his, as though he might kiss me at any moment. "Yes," he says with a profound gentleness that reminds me of the waves on sand. "This is real." And again, I really think he might close the distance between his lips and mine... and I'm scared that he might. Not only because he's Benedict Cumberbatch, not only because I've forgotten everything about him and us, not because I'm pregnant with his child. But simply because, all of a sudden, I am reminded of my sick father, the way he would, too, wrap his hand around me, the way he would corner me and devour me with his mouth. And suddenly, despite Ben's great care and tenderness, I feel a bit trapped with him so near, so strong and tall compared with me, and I squirm a tiny bit, stiffening.

It seems that he knows this sign, and he quickly pulls away from me, sensing my intimidation, and only putting his hand on mine, erasing all evidence of what might have become a very strange embrace. "I'm sorry. I know I intimidate you sometimes... my body. Is it about your father?" He looks at me imploringly, in equal parts trying to prove himself, trying to bring me back to life and genuinely wondering why I've so quickly become upset, as though he dreads it will actually be his fault, and not the fault of the evil man who raised me. But I quickly nod my head in the affirmative to his question and he squeezes my hand gently, imploring me to look at him with his powerful eyes. "Holly," he tells me, "I am nothing like that man."

And I truly believe him. "I told you about my father?" I ask, worried about just how much I might have told him, just how much he might know, how much anger he might be containing right now as we sit beside each other, five years apart.

"I'm your husband, Holly. You told me because you trust me, and because I love you."

"My husband," I repeat, everything else washing out into the periphery of my senses for a beat as I try to process the reality of our relationship.

He waits for a moment, searching my face. "Does that upset you?"

"Well..." I manage, a terrible awkwardness overtaking me. "I don't... I don't know you." I collapse a little bit at having to say it, barely managing to look at his devastated eyes as I groan and put my head in my hands again. "I'm so sorry, Ben, I'm really, really trying I just... I can't remember. Anything."

And then with the force of the whole situation, the sadness and bizarre nature of it all, the tears start to flood out again, which is miraculous given how drained of them I already feel. I let him pull me into a tentative embrace, and soon I am sobbing quietly against his shoulder, feeling the warm pressure of his powerful arms locked comfortably around me. My body remembers this place, remembers the safety of his heartbeat, his breath, even if my mind doesn't and I calm down a bit, subconsciously.

"Am I going insane?" I almost whisper to him, after some time has passed. "Are you really telling me the truth?"

I feel his rib cage expand and contract, pressed against mine, and I feel his breath in my hair, his arms tightening a little as he speaks. "I couldn't lie to you if I wanted to," the depth of his voice becoming even lower and more dark as he says it, as though he's trying to tap into some line of communication between himself and my subconscious, trying to strain whatever demon is doing this to me out of my mind, trying to bring me back to him, the me of the future, the me that is twenty-three years old and married to him, happily, as far as I can gather.

But after another minute he pulls away from me and considers me, and we both are devastated, because I am still stuck at eighteen years of age, having never met him in person, knowing nothing of him but Alexandra's musings, knowing nothing of my future self, the self he has grown to love, the self who is going to mother his child. A terrible thought strikes me: that I may be stuck five years behind forever, always having to jump over this gap...

But before I can wrap my head around it enough to start crying again, he lets my hands go and looks pointedly at the side of my middle, and then tentatively up at my eyes again. "Would you try something for me?" he says, with the utmost gentleness at which I can do nothing but nod yes. "Lift up your shirt?"

"What?" I hear myself say, suddenly, my whole self becoming incredibly meek again at his random suggestion. On instinct my chest caves in slightly and I draw my body away from him a little, and I can feel my face heat up.

"Just a little," he explains, "to here," and gestures to his own side, just about in line with the place below his rib cage. To clarify, he points to the same spot on my own body, being careful never to touch me. "You'll see," he explains, and there's a trustworthiness in his eyes that I can't deny, so I do as he's suggested, and lift the unfamiliar shirt away from my skin, looking down to examine the place he'd directed me to.

A little ripple of shock goes through me as I see what looks like a very nasty wound of some sort, a scar which seems to be a few years old, with a healthy heal, which I know from my pre-med training—or, at least, the pre-med training my eighteen year old memory has already gone through. I look up at Benedict in search of an explanation, for I cannot remember how I got this, or where.

"It's a gunshot wound," he says to me, recognizing my dumbfoundedness. "Do you know how you got it?"

I cant' do anything but shake my head in the negative.

At this, he looks at me supportively, taking my hand in his again, giving me faith through those blue eyes that he is going to help me recover, to help me return, no matter how long it takes him. And for a moment, now, I can understand why I fell in love with him. Or... will fall in love with him.

"Then," he says to me gently, promising me our story... "I know just where to start."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah, you guys. So, I just thought of this earlier today as a funny little mind-trip, and thought I might just write it down for fun, not to post or anything, since it started out so cliché. But then once I got writing it all sorta flooded out and I started getting a whole plot idea in my head, and now I think I just might be actually invested in this story. It's way too early in the morning to know how I'll feel after some sleep, but, we shall see...
> 
> Thanks for reading this, and hope you kinda sorta enjoyed it!
> 
> :)
> 
> Une-papillon-de-nuit
> 
> 17 July, 2020


	2. Chapter 2: A Real Hero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chance brings Holly and Benedict together on an autumn day in NYC...

**Chapter 2: A Real Hero | November, 2015**

**Benedict**

I've always considered people-watching an integral part of the creative process. In years of late, I admit, the habit has grown into something else, however—something with a darker undertone of jealousy. For when I plant myself for a while on a park bench and watch the people go by, or sit in the corner of a coffee shop, or simply walk on a less crowded side of the street, disguise arranged around my contrary identity... I come to feel a certain measure of envy for the people who pass there, unassuming, brushing by one another, brushing by me. I wonder what their lives are like, how they manage in the 'normal' realm of living, and I wish, for more than a few foolish, stray seconds, to become one of them. To climb over the wall of time and space, and come to inhabit a different version of myself, which might have succeeded in becoming the final one if one event in the lengthening calendar of my career had been ticked off course.

So, I watch them, and I allow myself to inhabit each of them as they go along, imagining their stories, placing myself inside of their lives as I see them in my head, incapable of escaping my gift, for it is just exactly this which has made me famous, has made me who they perceive me to be. For a while, it's an escape, a welcome one—but then, inevitably, I have to return to myself, have to return to my work, return to that identity beneath the disguise of normalcy which always finds a way to win in the end.

Now, I am undertaking a silent episode of people-watching in the subway in New York City. I imagine my life connected with these people's in more ways than them watching me on their screens, or hearing about me in gossip columns. As the train speeds through the tubes of the city's underground, I imagine myself conjoining with them, becoming like them, becoming anonymous and normal among them. My agent and personal assistant had both advised strongly against this escapade, but thus far my disguise of scarf, hat and tinted glasses has served me well. I've stuck up the collar of my coat and sit in the corner of the train car, looking mildly around at the others, absorbed in their phones or other work, staring blankly, attending to children—none of them turning a suspicious glance my way, to my elation.

I may have been able, by now, to lull myself into a state of mild sedation with this utter normalcy, this state of being pleasantly ignored and unsuspected... if it weren't for the girl.

She's been sitting on the other side of the car at the opposite end since I got on, and has barely moved a muscle, but this only makes her seem more intriguing to me. At first I noticed the simple things, as I notice the articles and characteristics attached with everyone I watch: she's wearing a cozy-looking sweater boasting Columbia University upon it, though she doesn't seem standoffish about her education in any way. Her legs are in yoga pants and her honey-brown hair is tied up in a singularly messy bun, revealing a delicate neck and face. The latter is absorbed deep inside of a gigantic medical textbook, and her right hand works hurriedly, her fingers clutching a pencil. From time to time, she presses down on the corner of her lower lip with her teeth, in deep thought, before writing again, but she seems set upon never looking up from her book. One arm is clamped down protectively around a backpack that she holds beside her in the same seat, and her leg has tucked up under her on the seat on a few occasions, as I suspect, from creeping pins and needles.

As time has worn on, now, I can't help wondering why she hasn't gotten off yet; whether she's here in hiding from someone or something, perhaps from herself. The moving subway hardly seems like an ideal study spot... perhaps she's just had a spit-out with a friend? Or, maybe, she likes people watching, too, and only has that heavy textbook which is practically as big as her to serve as a disguise, like my own hat, scarf and stiff coat collar.

She has an exceptionally pretty countenance, and the focus and dedication in the set of her eyebrows only highlights it. I wonder whether she's stressed with work, whether this reading is serving for a class on the side of her major, or whether she's shooting for a medical degree, and, if so, then why. My mind tries working out a set of different possible backstories for her, as I do out of habit when I find a person who intrigues me particularly. But with her, there is something different from the rest; she is so singular in my mind that, no matter how I try to piece her together with a pattern of ideas or possibilities, she doesn't quite fit. And thus it is her who I have kept circling back to when I glance among my fellow travelers, out of a deep curiosity that makes me feel slightly childish, but also meaningful, in a way I haven't felt since I, myself, was in school, right at the beginning of things, when the world and myself were open to every possibility.

I'm observing the contour of her leg (which she's put up on the seat and propped the giant textbook against) out of the corner of my eye behind my glasses when the subway makes yet another stop. Some of the people I've been observing for varying amounts of time depart, and silently, with my eyes, I bid them each farewell: the tattered mother with her pink-clothed little girl, the old professor in a tweed coat holding an ancient copy of Macbeth, the three young men in black sweaters carrying instrument cases, the middle-aged woman in business clothes and high heels that seem to have been torturing her all day from the strained look of her mouth.

And in their place a number of new people enter the car from the platform outside, the steady ebb and flow of this hour in the evening keeping the car comfortably full but not packed, and everyone finds a seat, with some space between them, apart from one man who grabs my attention immediately, and stands in the center of the car, preferring to take hold of a rubber loop hanging from the ceiling rather than sit down in one of the open seats. I consider his jeans, his hair pulled back into a bun, his aquiline nose and button-up white shirt, and find it curious that he doesn't carry anything with him, but figure that he must be on for only a short ride, and decide not to stare or figure too long as the doors close and the light of the platform speeds quickly away from the train windows.

I start to glance over the other newcomers, but before I can really take anything in, something happens that doesn't register in my mind at the start as what it truly is. I hear, from my corner of the subway car, two sharp blasts of sound, and then everything is extremely quiet for a split second before the occupants of the train car surge into motion. This is one thing I have observed about people in all my hours of watching them: they will always appear dormant, private from one another, until an event such as this takes place. Then, they band together like a tremendous trained unit in battle, as though they've known each other all their lives—and the spectacle can be something quite grand and bolstering to watch.

But when I'm caught up in the moment of the two sharp bangs, and the sudden realization that they were made by a gun in the quick hand of the man with the aquiline nose and long hair who I'd noticed moments earlier, the moment of banding together isn't so much aweing but frightening, like a frenzy, and accentuated in its terror by the very enclosed and small space in which we find ourselves.

Another man is the first to react to the gunshots, spotting the culprit and quickly tackling him down to the ground, stomping on the hand that holds the gun and sending the firearm spinning across the floor of the subway car to the other end, far out of reach. This second man quickly apprehends the man with the aquiline nose, and it's clear that he's had some sort of training as a public servant, for her does it quickly and effectively, placing his knee on a pressure point in the culprit's back to make sure he isn't about to get up again.

Very quickly, everyone else comes to action, too, in what seems like slow motion compared to the initial action of the second man. I don't get up from my seat at all, too frozen by what has just passed, but I observe as the others get up, some of them, like me, remaining in their seats, stunned, leaning forward to watch the scene unfold.

It becomes apparent soon that the two shots fired had both found purchase in bodies—the first, most accurate bullet had buried itself deep in the abdomen of a young boy who had been very near the gun when it had gone off. The second shot had torn into the girl with the textbook, quickly bloodying her Columbia sweater and book; it seemed to have gone into her side, just missing her lung. The first victim, the young boy, is now bleeding very badly and screaming, slumping to the floor as his father, beside him, kneels down along with him. A crowd of passengers, all struggling to keep on their feet in the moving subway, crowd around, all of them shouting, while the Columbia girl at the end is doubled over silently, bleeding profusely but attracting little attention. Someone gets on the phone with the police. And then a shout goes up from one of the people crowded around the boy, a shout that pierces through the cacophony of vague mutters and yelps of confusion: "He's bleeding out!"

And it's in that split second that the girl who I'd been so intrigued by earlier, for her silence, is drawn fully out of her shell, and, despite her bleeding side, despite the fact that she has to practically crawl over to the boy and elbow her way through the accumulated group, clutching her side—she raises her voice. "Let me through, I can help him," she says, her voice high and strained by the urgency and by her own pain.

"You're not a doctor!" sputters the father of the bleeding boy, who keeps looking urgently toward the man who'd shot his son, groaning as he's detained by the heavy, expert man at the end of the car.

"I'm going to be, sir. Please, let me try. Something's better than nothing," says the girl, and there's a second that passes between her and the man, in which he notes her Columbia sweater, notes the raw determination in her eyes, and decides to move aside slightly, letting her get at the boy—whose blood now has spread in a giant puddle across most of the subway car floor.

I watch from my secluded, cold corner of disbelief, as the girl, heedless of her own severe gunshot wound, which has her whole sweater drenched in blood, and has her breathing harder and faster by the second—turns into a machine of passion and efficiency, ordering the other onlookers to do various things, keeping pressure on the area around the gunshot wound while she stoops lower, doing something... I have no idea what... that seems legitimate if only from the pure assurance and ability she exudes as she does it. A point comes at which she performs CPR on the child, and still, I can only look on in awe, frozen in my shock at reality...

And then, before another moment has passed, it seems, the train is slowing down again, and it stops at another station. The doors open and some people on the platform start to shout and scream. Police flood into the car and professionally apprehend the man who'd fired the gun, collecting said firearm in a bag and sealing it efficiently. Medical people come in, too, and in a flurry of time and space and movement, both the little boy and the girl who had rushed so heroically to his aid despite her own severe injury are taken away through the platform and up toward the aboveground, from where ambulance sirens can already be heard wailing.

The train has clearly been stopped indefinitely for this emergency, so that the people onboard can be serviced, and so it is without much of a rush—for I am too unsteady already as it is to hurry, and my head is full of unbalance—that I walk over to the other side of the car, sidestepping the puddle of the boy's blood, and retrieve the girl's abandoned school backpack and textbook from the floor and her blood-spattered seat. Before I can really register picking them up, though, a police officer takes me by the elbow and escorts me off of the train and onto the platform, where I try to gather myself, and quickly head through toward the stairs to ascend onto the city street, very aware of my susceptibility to being recognized, here.

So I hurry through the crowd, none of whom apprehend me, as the talk is all focused on what has happened in the subway, and I work my way, breathless, up into the daylight of the cool November evening. On the city street I have to find a place to sit, which happens to be the doorstep of a large brownstone on the side of the street. I tumble down to sit upon it, in a sense, shocked and exerting a great amount of effort to catch my breath and recollect my wits after such a startling turn of events.

Soon enough, I manage to get my thoughts in order again. I am in one piece; I am not covered with someone else's blood, or bleeding, myself; I have escaped the subway car without damaging myself and without being noticed; and I also have escaped with that startling girl's possessions—that girl who is likely being rushed to a hospital for urgent attention at this very moment.

As I realize my responsibility to somehow get her possessions back to her, a measure of guilt settles down unpleasantly over my shoulders. I chuckle to myself a little at the irony of the whole predicament: that I should be here in New York City, on the set of a film in which I portray the story's hero, and that I should find myself stuck in a real-life attack and not be able to muster any sort of bravery at all, is funny to me in a cynical way. For I have played at being the hero in plenty of stories, but that certainly doesn't make me one in reality. It's ridiculous to me that people such at myself, who only mime the actions of real heroes, get all the attention, where the people like that girl in the Columbia sweater—the true hero—don't get much acknowledgement at all, above perhaps an article in the newspaper.

Sitting on the step with the leaves falling from the trees around me and the crispness of the season chilling me even further, cabs honking, people running and walking past, the smells of chlorophyll, fresh baking and metal—I am faced with the realization that I truly admire that girl, that girl who I have never met, but still feel as though I somehow know, subconsciously. And I find myself, too soon, becoming obsessed with the idea of her, the fact that she, who had looked so quiet and still, studying from her medical textbook, had in a split second become so helpful, so heroic to the cause of saving that young boy... and all while she, herself, was no doubt suffering from the most intense physical pain she'd ever felt in her life.

Heroism such as that couldn't be cast off merely on adrenaline, and the more I think about her, think about her heroism, the more I am warmed and feel lucky to have borne witness to such a brave act. And, too, the more I feel a longing to meet her in person.

Which, I realize, is not a prospect entirely unlikely, as I just happen to have picked up her backpack and textbook, items she will surely be looking to retrieve, once she's freed from the hospital.

It's not difficult to find an identification patch, sewn into the very inside of the backpack, which is full of other textbooks—and, I note with a mild smile, a paperback copy of Great Expectations. I examine the little patch, with personal information written onto it in fine-tip sharpie: Her name, Holly Whitaker, her phone number, and the location: Furnald Residence Hall, Columbia University.

I decide easily that it would be too risky to call her phone number. I don't want to seem imposing, if she happens to know who I am. So the better thing to do would clearly be to make an anonymous delivery to the lost and found. It takes a quick Google search to find that I can turn the bag into the public safety operations desk at the Low memorial library at the university's Morningside campus.

So, infused with a new purpose, enlivened by the autumn air, and feeling a little better about myself than I did a moment ago, I gather myself up from the front step of the brownstone, and set off down the street, placing the backpack over my shoulder with the utmost care and carrying the textbook under my arm, glad to make myself a servant of this heroine—Holly—whom I've become so quickly and completely amazed by.

* * *

**Holly**

It's been an hour since I was released from the hospital after undergoing an intensive surgery on the gunshot wound, and, still, I am perfectly exhausted. Regardless of how enticing my bed sounds after such a stress-filled evening, I know that I still will have to stay up and study later tonight, so I send myself on a mission for my roommate, Alexandra, who has, yet again, lost her thermos. It's a short walk across campus to reach the lost and found, and I hope that the cold seven o'clock temperature will wake me up again, and get me ready for a night of studying.

I make my way with a few groans out to the front of the residence hall with the help of a crutch which the athletic department has been kind enough to loan me for free, until It's advisable that I walk on my own two feet again. The cold air of the campus hits me like a solid wall, and I stumble a little bit, catching myself on the railing before limping groggily down the steps and onto the pathway which will lead me through the campus to the low library.

Instantly I start to regret my decision to be the bigger person and go out in Alex's name, for I've already been strangely cold since the surgery, and though I'm buried in a new (free-of-blood-stains) Columbia sweater and pair of sweatpants, courtesy of the school, I feel myself shivering, my teeth chattering as I limp across the campus, chewing on a chocolate bar forced into my hand by Alex, in an attempt to get some of my vitality back.

On my journey, I'm forced to take a seat on a bench once, since I've become quickly light headed, and as I continue to make my trek across the campus a minute later, people start to stop me, and congratulate and thank me on what they say is heroism. I thank them all, though most of them I've never met before, and really I am glad that I had the opportunity to use some of my medical knowledge in the real world—but I wouldn't ever go so far as to consider myself a hero. I was only doing what was right in the moment, and it didn't even feel at that moment that I was the one doing it—it was more of an out-of-body, instinctive experience, to be perfectly honest.

As much as I appreciate the recognition from my peers, however, it's my one hope that the boy who I helped get to the ambulance in time will be alright. I met with his father before leaving the hospital after my own surgery, and we exchanged phone numbers, so that I might be kept notified of the young boy's status. If I can manage it, I'd like to make a visit to him tomorrow, and talk with him... That is, if he's in the condition to do so. The doctors said before I departed that they were hopeful for the little boy, so I let those positive thoughts cloud my head, ignoring the doctor's code of realism which I will soon have to conform to, and instead allowing myself to be optimistic in respect.

I reach the lost and found after what seems like ages of walking, not to mention the terrible challenge that the stairs up to the entrance made for me in my new condition. I'm very relieved to see that a young woman who I'm familiar with, Julia Sykes, is manning the desk for the night, and I take a satisfied bite of Alex's chocolate bar, starting to feel some vague tingles of liveliness where I hadn't before.

"Alex's thermos again?" exclaims Julia with a mild look of knowing on her face when she spots me.

I limp with the crutch up to the desk and lean forward on it, winded. "You know it," I say, with the same tone. Alex is in a terrible habit of misplacing her thermos, and either she, I or both of us are down here at the lost and found at least once every week to reclaim it.

Julia smiles at me, at our shared predicament, and starts to rifle through a few boxes against the back wall behind the desk. After a short search she comes up with Alex's thermos, and sets it on the desk for me to take. I smile at her in gratitude. "You alright?" she says, when I smile, and I'm sure that I must look dreadfully weak.

"You know," I admit, "I'm pretty sure I'm still a little doped up from the surgery. But I'll be just fine tomorrow."

"It's gonna hurt like the dickens when you wake up. But— The pain will be well worth it, I'm sure, as long as that little boy turns out okay."

I nod, letting her know that she's read my mind perfectly once again. "Well," I say with true reluctance, for I'd like to linger and keep her company for a while, "I really should get back. Alex will get worried about me if I don't hurry, and I've got to study, still."

"You're one for the books, Whitaker," Julia says to me, with a broad, praising grin and a mild shake of her head. I lift up the thermos to her in salutation before gathering up my crutch and limping back into the elevator, faring her goodnight with a little wave before the doors close and I'm shuttled up to the ground floor again.

I've been a little too uplifted by Julia's kind words and by the relief at fulfilling my mission of reclaiming my friend's thermos, and so when I get back outside onto the cold steps, I try a little too fast to descend them, and stumble a little. To keep from falling on my face I have to let myself fall back a little, and I end up sitting down, winded and dizzy from the still-ebbing anesthesia in my system. Its late and the campus is starting to get more and more empty, but I decide to just sit down here and take a breather. Alex will understand, and better to freak her out a little bit than to pass out in the middle of the campus. So I lay down my crutch beside me and press my hand to my side, densely bandaged by the doctors, taking deep breaths to keep myself from passing out.

It's just as I'm confident I've returned enough to normalcy that I can get back up again and resume my trek down the stairs toward my residence hall, a figure in casual clothes and a warm-looking coat appears to me in my peripheral vision, and I turn my head to look toward the newcomer, who is looking at me, as well.

"Miss Whitaker?" he calls out to me from the bottom of the steps, and I note his English accent. He's tall and good looking, his face illuminated dimly by the light coming from the building behind me and from various lamp posts around the campus. But more importantly I see that over his shoulder is slung my backpack and he's also carrying my medical textbook, which I'd abandoned in my rush to get off the subway and to an ambulance, which I'd been panicking over all night long.

"Oh, my God, thank you so much," I say to the stranger, grateful even beyond my own belief that the backpack and textbook have shown up again, and so soon. In this city, I've too quickly learned, if you leave something behind, it's foolish to expect to ever see it again. But it seems that I'm being repaid for the good deed everyone's praising me for doing, and the happiness of seeing my backpack and book helps me get back on my feet.

I limp down slowly with the help of my crutch, to meet the man at the bottom of the steps, and he helps me on with the backpack, which I'm grateful for, as it would be embarrassing—to say the least—to hop around on one foot while trying to do it alone. He's much taller than me, perhaps nearly a foot so, and if I weren't so close to the building and in a pretty well-lit part of the campus, I might have been nervous being alone with him. But given the circumstances, I look up into his face with a smile to show my gratitude once more. I feel like he looks vaguely familiar... but in the relatively dim light and with my mind still groggy, I can't quite tell.

"I was on the subway, today," he tells me. "I picked them up when you left, and I didn't know who to give them to, so I thought I'd bring them here myself. I hope you don't mind."

"Of course I don't mind," I say, shivering a little in the cold but warmed by this man's kind gesture. "Really, I'm grateful—you easily could have stolen the bag—there's thousands of dollars worth of textbooks in here. I never could have paid for new ones."

He raises a playful eyebrow at this revealing statement. "Thousands of dollars, you say?"

I laugh a little at his sense of humor. "But really," I say, "thank you." And then, because I don't want to keep him, and I really should be getting back to the dorm as soon as possible before Alex calls someone on me, I smile at him again and gesture the way I'm headed. "Well, I shouldn't keep you."

He nods his understanding and steps back from me. "Have a good night," he tells me, and I nod my thanks to him again before limping off toward the residence hall, leaning heavily on my crutch.

But before I reach the main pathway toward the hall through the campus, he calls out from behind me again. "Miss Whitaker?" he says, and I turn around to face him receptively, curious at what he wants to say to me. He shuffles his feet slightly and looks at the ground, as though composing a statement of extreme potency and importance to him. Again I feel a flash of recognition in his manner and his voice, but I'm sure I'm just being delusional, given the time of night, and the crazy day I've just survived.

"I think it's amazing what you did on the train," he says to me at length, a look of real sincerity in his eyes.

I shake my head a little bit, as I have already many times, when confronted with praise by my peers, though it is a little different being told I'm admired by a person who was actually there in the train car to witness my act. "I really don't think I did much of anything important," I say honestly, not wanting to sound too humble, but only being truthful to my opinion. "I was just doing what anybody would have done."

He laughs a little bit, the sound pleasant across the short distance between us. "You did what I certainly couldn't have done in that situation," he says gently. "I was petrified, completely useless. I'm a bit embarrassed about it actually."

I smile at his cordial and honest nature, and am suddenly glad that it was him who brought my possessions back safely into my hands. He seems like a very nice man, and I'm glad to be able to say that we both survived that incident on the subway together. "Well," I say, not able to say anything else, when faced with such kindness. I shrug my shoulders a little bit and smile at him sheepishly; I've never been good at taking complements. "Thank you, anyway."

He nods his head and looks at me for a moment with an intense admiration in his eyes that makes my face color slightly, and then I nod again, saying "Good night," before turning awkwardly on my crutch and limping away again across the campus, smiling a little foolishly at his complements.

I get into my dorm room just before eight o'clock, and groan at the digital clock on the desk when I realize that I've just spent nearly an hour doing what I could have done in just fifteen minutes had I been uninjured. Alex is sitting on her dorm bed, not studying, watching something on her computer and eating from a giant bag of popcorn.

"I was about to call someone on you, slacker," she says playfully as soon as I get in the dorm room.

She's facing the other way so I stick my tongue out at her in response as I set my backpack down heavily on my desk, turning on the lamp I use for studying.

"I felt that," she says to me sharply, referring to my sticking my tongue out at her, and I'm sure to make a lot of noise putting my crutch against the wall by the desk. She chuckles to herself and I can't help smiling too, at the friendly banter we've developed in the past short months. I've never had such a supportive and gracious friend in all my life; in fact, I consider her, truthfully, to be the first true friend I've ever had.

I look over at her with a grateful smirk on my face, happy to see her so blissfully ignorant of everything around her, her earbuds in, continuing to wolf down that popcorn. She's watching the same TV show she's been binging nonstop since I first met her at the beginning of the semester. Something British, a modern reboot of the classic Sherlock adventures—

Oh. My...

Turning away from my desk, clinging to the post of Alex's bed as I limp over, I look over her shoulder at the screen of her computer.

"Finally getting drawn in, eh?" says Alex, noticing my proximity. She's been trying to get me addicted to the show for a while.

But I only shake my head at her mildly in response, my own jaw dropping open a little bit as I piece together the face of the actor who portrays Detective Holmes on the show—Benedict Cumberbatch, with whom Alex has a mildly unhealthy obsession—with the face of the man who had just delivered my backpack and textbook to me in front of the memorial library, just minutes ago.

I'd known then and there that I'd recognized his look and voice from somewhere, and now I understand why... and a little smile comes to my face with this private knowledge. But I decide that not saying anything is the best choice in this situation. He's never going to turn up again, and it likely would only have been embarrassing for both he and I, if I'd recognized him in the moment. Maybe it had been a welcome change for him, to have a casual interaction with a person who didn't recognize him for his celebrity.

Surely, if I were to tell Alex, that I'd seen him, she would go searching for him all around campus, and I would never hear the end of it for the rest of my life. So, I just smile a little bit, keeping the interaction to myself. "Sorry. It's nothing," I say to her, turning away and going back to my desk, unpacking my backpack, relieved to see that everything—especially my prized copy of Great Expectations—is still here, and that the backpack has no blood on it whatsoever.

I sit down at the desk chair, adjusting myself around the sensitive surgical site in the side of my abdomen, and start to get to work studying, though really, I'd rather be going to bed. As the sound of flashcards greets Alex's ears, she pauses her show and turns to me with a look of pure audacity on her face. "Are you seriously studying, Holly?"

My mind is now a swarm of terms and definitions, so it takes me a second longer than usual to process and respond. "Yeah, I am. School isn't just put on hold for gunshot wounds."

"Actually," scoffs Holly, "it can be. If you have to, just ask Stockett for an extension. She's understanding enough. And, anyway, you're going to ace it, as it is. You've been quizzing yourself nonstop for the whole week. Holly—"

The precise tone of her voice makes me hesitate in flipping the next flashcard, and I turn to look at her imploring face. "You need some sleep after all this," she informs me.

Even after she says the word sleep, I feel the sudden urge to nod, but suppress it. I'm attending school here in the first place on a massive scholarship, and if I intend to continue earning it day to day, I need to really ace this examination, and every other one. Right now, I could probably get a grade in the nineties. But I need a hundred percent. And that's something that Alex, though she's brilliant, will never understand, since her parents are incredibly wealthy, and she's here without any financial aid whatsoever.

I give her a sheepish look that relays my intentions to keep studying regardless of her advice, and she shrugs, grumbling something like "whatever" as she goes back to her show. I feel a little bit tense, betraying her kind intentions, but soon enough she's drawn into the show again, chuckling and munching on her popcorn. I look in disbelief at the screen, watching the man's face on it, and I shake my head a little bit at the irony of the whole situation, before getting back to studying, sure that meeting Mr. Cumberbatch had only been a one-time, chance encounter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh, marvelous readers! I am really starting to enjoy this story... there's so much to explore, so many depths to probe! More chapters of this drama are definitely in store. I'm grateful to you who left feedback on the first chapter—you really motivated me to keep writing! I hope that I won't disappoint!
> 
> Just an FYI: I have no trouble writing from our heroine Holly's POV, given that she's an original character... But I do feel a little bit weird writing from our dearly loved Benedict's point of view... Please let me know how his POV sections feel and read to you guys, so that I can know what to improve to keep his voice as accurate and enjoyable to read as possible!
> 
> Hope you all are faring well,
> 
> une-papillon-de-nuit
> 
> 17 July, 2020


	3. Chapter 3: Hospitals of the Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...in which fate persists...

**Chapter 3: Hospitals of the Heart | November 2015**

**Holly**

I wake up rather unpleasantly to Alexandra tapping on my shoulder and hiss-whispering my name. She's always been more of a morning person than I am, and thus schedules many of her classes earlier in the day than I could ever dare to. But she's always quiet in getting ready and leaving the dorm in the morning. On a normal occasion if I'd been roused by a noise she'd made inadvertently, I would ignore it and try to get back to sleep. But as she's never before deliberately woken me before my alarm, my subconscious—though groggy—tells me that something must be urgent, and I decide to rise up from the swamp of my sleep.

"Are you okay?" I ask her, sitting up on my bed and squinting through the dim light of early morning coming through our window. She's standing over me with her phone in her hand, eyes darting between the screen and my face, and she's wearing an odd expression somewhere between anxiety and great delight.

"You aren't going to believe this," she tells me in a giggling tone. "You're all over the news. The newspaper, some smaller websites—and the University security has been keeping press off the campus all morning."

I groan a little, wanting to make some remark about how 'all morning' to her is as good as pre-dawn to me, but I decide against it. "Just look at this," she says, and hands me her phone. I take it and blink away the startling blue light that hits my eyes, before beginning to scroll.

"Oh, wow..." I hear myself say. And the sight of it is truly surreal. At first I'm frightened that the news might somehow involve Mr. Cumberbatch, and that Alex will feel that I've betrayed her trust for not telling her about my interactions with him last night. But the news has nothing at all to do with him. All the articles she shows me center on the incident in the subway, paired with guesses at what the shooter's motive or possible affiliations might have been. They discuss the young boy who had been shot, that he is currently receiving care in the hospital, and they also speculate over the mysterious young woman who had helped give him immediate care long enough for him to reach the ambulance alive. I feel my face physically heat up with embarrassment as I continue reading, the writers making me out as some sort of hero with lightning instincts and superhuman empathy.

"Because that's what you are!" exclaims Alex to me when I tell her my feelings, at last handing her phone back. I don't need to involve myself in this drama yet, and if I can manage it, I would like to get a little more sleep before I'll have to face a day of limping, exams, and, apparently, too much attention.

"I'm not heroic, or... a superhero, or anything. I just did the right thing," I say, defending myself from the sudden popularity. I don't even want to think about being widely known to the public, and I try to calm myself down by telling myself that this is simply my fifteen minutes of fame, spent early. But what causes more anxiety than the attention itself is how far it has the potential to reach. I wonder with a shudder as Alex starts to scroll through her phone again, scoffing and giggling at the articles mentioning her best friend, whether this news of me will reach my father... My father who I'd run away from at seventeen years of age, and who still doesn't know where I disappeared to. My father who, if he knew my location, would most certainly come after me and try to reclaim me, regardless of the fact that I'm now a legal adult.

But if I try to deal with all of that right now, then I'll collapse into hysterics before the day even starts. So I shake my head at Alex's protestations to my 'ridiculous humility' and tell her in no uncertain terms (which I hope still manage to be kind) that I am heading back to sleep.

She grumbles at me a little bit more, so I make a point of drawing my blankets tight around myself, and after a little while, she leaves the dorm room.

But by then, when the excitement is past and I'm left alone with my suddenly explosive worries, I've come to the realization that I'm not about to get back to sleep any time soon. Along with my anxieties over being in the news in the first place, and the repercussions that public acknowledgement may have on my personal life (and my existence itself, knowing how violent my father can become in situations much less extreme than this), I have started to realize in Alex's absence just how extreme my pain is.

An absolute, miserable burning has taken hold over my entire abdomen, along with a terrible stiffness that makes me question whether I'll succeed in standing up from my bed at all. I curse the anesthesia from my surgery for putting me into a false state of security the night before, and decide that I'll just have to tough this out until I can access some more pain medication. I can only hope that something will be strong enough to help me cope with all of this—for I can't possibly imagine sitting down for an exam in this extreme state of pain.

I almost roar in physical anguish when I finally work up the nerve to stand up from the bed. I come close to just crumpling up and falling right back to the ground back in a fetal position, but I find the will, with another suppressed roar of pain, to limp my way over to the desk and sit down in the chair. It burns so badly that, firstly, I feel shameful tears start to prick at my eyes, and I wonder whether there's something direly wrong with the wound, if I might be dying...

It takes a minute for me to get my breathing calmed down and to recognize the clear, calm voice in the back of my mind which tells me it's perfectly natural for this pain to be taking over my body after such trauma as a gunshot. But despite my clearer head, the pain is still nearly unbearable, and it's with a great disappointment in myself that I realize It's both illogical and irresponsible to plan on attending classes today.

"Damn it," I cluck to the empty dorm room, feeling as though all the inanimate objects around me are looking on in solemn judgment of my low pain tolerance. I allow myself to wallow in my embarrassment at having to email my professors, but then, eventually, tell myself aloud to get over it, stop babying myself and just deal with the situation, the way I always have dealt with difficult predicaments, the way I always will. I've typed up an adequate email, addressed it to all my professors and sent it out within five minutes—but it seems that at least an hour has passed because of the extreme pain taking over my whole body from the singularity of the sutured gunshot wound.

I'm grateful for the distraction when my phone vibrates on the desk and I open it to find a new message from Greg, the father of the boy I helped on the train yesterday. We exchanged numbers at the hospital afterwards in case anything came up, and as far as I can tell now, something has. Good. A mission, a purpose for the day. Something to get me out of this damned room, an excuse to overcome the astronomical waves of pain.

"Good morning, Miss Whitaker," read the first message, rigid from the outset. "I feel slightly juvenile asking this favor of you. As you may have heard, Tim has already undergone one surgery. But the doctors are saying he will need a second one today around noon. I'm in a complicated financial situation at the moment, and I would benefit greatly from your help. He's lucid at the moment, and has been asking to see you. If you could keep him company for an hour or so while I puzzle out the payment issue, it would be deeply appreciated. I understand if you're indisposed, and don't mean to imply that you haven't already given Tim and myself the world by saving him yesterday evening. Thank you, and please consider. - Greg"

I shake my head slightly at the terrible situation he's found himself in (he seems to be a hardworking and caring father—if such a thing can truly exist—from our conversation last night, and has had my attention and sympathy from that point onward), and I quickly start to compose a message in return.

"Greg. Thanks for reaching out. I would be delighted to come to the hospital and keep Tim company. I'm struggling with some pain, myself, and have decided to take the day off from classes, so this will not be a problem. Would ten this morning suit your needs? I can be there earlier."

A few seconds pass, and then his answer comes with a buzz: "Ten sounds perfect. I'm so glad to hear that you can come. Thank you, beyond words. Tim is looking forward to it."

I smile a little to myself, glad that, despite my pain, and the fact that I doubt I'm as heroic a person as first Mr. Cumberbatch and then the news has made me out to be, I've still managed to bring a bit of ease into a fellow struggler's life. "See you then," I respond, and then set my phone down, building up the mindset that will enable me to stand up and start getting ready. Though it's still fifteen 'till seven in the morning, and I don't have to be at the hospital by ten, I know it will take me a while to get there through morning traffic—probably by cab, to avoid attention. Simply getting ready and eating a little something—if my stomach will manage it—will take me at least twice the time it usually does.

I'm preparing myself for the blistering pain that will start upon standing up again when Alex returns to the room in a flurry of early-bird-ness that makes me a little bit jealous.

"I found you this," she tells me, handing me a bottle of Advil. "Just keep it on you for the rest of the day. It'll help you manage."

"Actually..." I admit, "I've decided to take the day for myself. I'm going to the hospital to see the kid and his father."

She rolls her eyes slightly at me, a usual reaction whenever—I think—she perceives me as being too selfless, a trait I've tried to eliminate but somehow cannot. But quickly a smile replaces the look of mild annoyance. "You need a disguise," she says, poorly suppressed delight rippling off of her in waves. And though I give her the most clearly defined expression of contempt for this idea as I am capable of, her smile only intensifies, and in the end, I have to join her in grinning foolishly.

It takes half an hour for Alex to give up her original plans of an all-out disguise. I refuse to change as much of my appearance as she'd like to (for the sake of escaping from the boredom of her first class of the day), both because it would be entirely ridiculous for me to limp down the street in a spy-like getup, and, more, because I highly doubt my ability to tolerate changing more than one article of clothing in this mortifying pain. So Alex ends up settling for helping me—laboriously—change my Columbia University sweater for a different one, to be less attention-attracting, but not to go entirely overboard. Besides, I warn her, once we've spent thirty minutes just changing my shirt and sweater for the pain it causes me, she'll regret missing her first class later, even if she doesn't want to attend it in the moment.

She sticks her tongue out at me at first, but she knows I'm right, so in the end, she goes off to her class and I'm left alone to scavenge up some breakfast. And by nine o'clock, I limp my way to the edge of the campus with the help of the athletic department loaned crutch, and get in a cab headed to the hospital to meet the little boy I helped save.

By the time I arrive just after ten, the medicine has kicked in just enough for me to manage a smile for Tim and Greg. Seeing the little boy there, laying on the cot, hooked up to so many machines, looking half-drugged and half-terrified, I know that it's wrong to complain of my own pain, however intense. So I grin at him and, after exchanging a meaningful glance with Greg, pull up a chair by Tim's cot.

It doesn't take long for Tim to open up to me, and soon, seeing that the situation between the two of us is friendly enough, and satisfied that Tim isn't frightened of me, Greg leaves the room to figure out the financial issue with the surgical operation. I read the boy book after book from a pile a nurse brought in, mimicking voices when I can, and making him laugh. Some of these books I remember from the very first years of preschool. I was never read to at the house where I lived.

It's always been easy for me to get along well with young children, though I never got along well with my own age group when I was one of them. I still admit that I suffer, at times, from an extreme jealousy from them. I'm saddened often when I see them, because I know that it's only so long before they are robbed of their innocence, though perhaps it will happen more slowly and subtly for most than it did for me. I'm still trying to figure out which is worse.

But for now, I allow myself to slip away from that jealousy, the knowledge that I, myself, am no longer a child, and also, in part, from my physical pain. I read him book after book and he laughs as much as he can, in spite of his own weakness. Once a nurse comes in to check on him and I'm grateful, at least, for his kindness toward Tim. It frightens me to see the little boy so weak, and I worry that his father won't be able to sort out the financial situation in time, for there's a certain way that the nurse looks at him when he situates his pillows that makes me very nervous for him. And I don't even want to think about something so morbid as his death.

So I keep reading him the books, keep making him chuckle, and request a coloring page for him when he asks. As the hour wears on, though, I see his state becoming weaker and weaker. It seems that he truly doesn't have much time left, and it takes a great amount of effort on my part to keep the terrible pain of my own wound at bay, especially when I see him wince at his own pain—for his father doesn't have enough money to keep him on enough pain medication.

I'm beginning to feel claustrophobic and irrevocably sad just when the doctor enters the room with what I know is good news before she even starts speaking. "Hi, Tim," she says with an impeccable bedside manner, "you remember me, don't you?"

Tim nods yes, as he's been becoming too weak to say much in the past quarter hour. The doctor smiles at him and turns to me. "Are you representing Mr. Smith?"

"Not legally," I say, feeling a little flustered. "I'm here keeping Tim company for him. He's somewhere trying to figure out the expenses for the second surgery."

"Well, I have some very good news," says the doctor. She approaches Tim's side and looks down at him with a friendly expression. I admire her; particularly since this is the sort of career I envision myself having in the future, it's both uplifting and daunting to see the way she approaches such a young boy, in the middle of such suffering, with the utmost grace and ability. Where here I am, ready to fall apart over the injustice of it all.

I shut up my mind's self-conscious rambling and listen to her continue: "An anonymous benefactor has just paid for your treatment in full, Tim. Both surgeries, and so that we can get you some better medicine for the pain. How's that sound?"

Tears come into my eyes slightly at the way the little boy's face brightens up. I've been able to catch on in our short time together that he is more aware of Gregory's financial struggles than Greg would have him be. To see this early bit of maturity in him is touching, and I'm elated to hear that the news coverage of this traumatic event has led to someone lending money. Sometimes, the city can seem so cold. But it gives me faith and a feeling of ease knowing that someone has taken the effort to demonstrate such warmth.

"They were insistent on anonymity?" I ask the doctor before she departs, in hopes that I might have the opportunity to thank whoever the benefactor was in person. But she nods her head to the affirmative, and in the end I have to let her go, and let myself be content in the fact that someone, somewhere, has decided to look out for this victimized little boy.

I contact Greg by phone and deliver the excellent news, and before long, after he's come back to join his son, the nurses come in to start prepping Tim for his second surgery. I approach his bedside and give his hand a squeeze, telling him that he is far stronger and better than any superhero I have ever seen in a movie. His face lights up and a deeper acknowledgement and gratitude comes to me through his eyes when I say it, and it's with confidence and a real feeling of gratitude for having met them both that I depart the room on my crutch, giving them privacy and promising Tim that I'll return to see him once he's out again.

In the elevator, which is, luckily, not inhabited by anyone else, I break down into uncontrollable tears, the terrible pain—barely quelled at all by the medication—along with the emotional relief and the roller coaster that I've been going up and down since the tragedy on the subway last night... Everything combines at once, and a flood of mixed-up sadness and happiness comes out. I manage to close the floodgates before I reach the ground floor, and I hobble into the lobby to find a place to rest and wait, rubbing at my eyes and cheeks with the cuff of my sweater sleeve and smiling ear to ear.

* * *

**Benedict**

I spot her immediately from across the hospital lobby, leaning on her crutch, her face smiling and also streaked with tears, the sight somehow making my heart stutter in its beating. I don't want to catch her off guard by staring at her, since I'm sure I'm the last person she was expecting to see here. But there's something entirely captivating about her presence, and her state, that keeps my head from turning away, even out of decency.

It's inevitable, however, and after a few short moments prolonged by emotion, she notices me, in turn. Her first reaction is to look down at the floor and finish rubbing away her tears with the sleeve of her sweater, and I, too, look down at my shoes for a few moments before we both look up and acknowledge each other again. After another moment, a realization passes between us that we've been obligated by coincidence or fate to acknowledge and greet each other, and she offers up a little wave to me, starting across the expanse of the lobby on her crutch.

"I wasn't expecting to see you here, Mr. Cumberbatch," she says to me quietly once she's finally made her way to me. We stand a bit apart from the other people in the lobby near the automatic doors, and she's careful to keep us inconspicuous, for which I am grateful. I feel a bit foolish for having held out hope that she wouldn't come to recognize me eventually, but a pleasant relief is also present in me, as I can tell that, despite her knowledge of my name, she still conducts herself casually in my presence.

"For goodness sakes," I say to her, chuckling a little at the formality of 'Mr. Cumberbatch' being her title for me, though I'm sure she had only been trying to be respectful. "Call me Ben."

She nods and smiles a little sheepishly. At the end, the smile turns into a grimace and she readjusts herself on her crutch, looking away, trying not to let me notice, though it's clear she's in an abundance of extreme pain. "It took me a while to realize who you were. I'm sorry if I offended you last night by not recognizing you off the bat."

"Oh, no," I tell her honestly, "it was quite a relief, actually."

"I could pretend not to know you, still, if that would set you at ease," she says with another smile, and an accompanying wince. Aside from her admirable and intriguing manner, she has a very pleasant face, and I find myself studying her rather like a charming analytical painting, hung in an unlikely spot in a museum. She smiles and winces once again before continuing, seeming slightly bashful in my presence. "I've got to ask... Were you the one who donated the money for Tim's treatment?"

"How did you guess?" I say lightly, impressed by her deduction. "Honestly, I felt guilty, for not doing more for him directly. So I stopped by to see if there was anything I could do."

"You should have seen his face light up," she tells me with a smile as she recollects it. "And his father was overwhelmed with relief. I've been with Tim—the boy—since ten this morning. His father and I have been in touch since night after I got out of surgery."

"How have you been feeling?" I ask, noting her crutch and the way her entire body folds into that singular space in her side which, from the conflicted nature of her face and the twitching in the corner of her mouth, is still causing her tremendous anguish.

"I've been feeling grateful for my life," she says, after considering the question for a moment, and I can't help but smile a bit at her selflessness.

I can feel that she's slightly uncomfortable in the conversation, and I try to make myself as unprepossessing and normal as possible. I'm sure that she's more than skittish after last night, and with the pain of her wound added to the shock I'm surprised she's even standing up. "Have you thought about physical therapy?" I ask, genuinely worried, and wondering why, suddenly, I've come to care about her so much.

"I hadn't thought about that yet, actually," she admits, nodding to herself and shaking her head. "Ignorant of me. I'll make a plan to see someone soon. Thanks." And the little smile she manages is a sweet one, which makes me feel settled in my skin, and in my place with her. Something in me is compelled to bid her farewell, to part ways with the knowledge that I've done something rather than nothing for the boy and his father... But, simultaneously, the matter of my presence in the hospital has now extended to the girl's being there, as well. I feel that there's some force trying to tell me something about her, but I haven't quite deciphered the code yet, and I want to remain with her until I have.

"This is strange to ask," I begin, letting my mild self-consciousness enter my tone. She looks up at me from her hunched position, only lowering her from her already petite height, and I can tell has incited a fraction of worry in her, so I continue on. "...But I would greatly appreciate it if you would let me wait with you for a while. I'd like to know how things go with the boy. Perhaps we could take a stroll somewhere, get out of this confined space for an hour or so? Only if it's alright with you." I feel so terrible about the speed and awkwardness with which I made my request that I wonder for a moment or two whether I'd actually said it at all, until a reaction comes across her face.

"Of course," she says, after a beat of deliberation that plays across her face. Though she appears in casual conversation to be something of an open book, I can tell that there's something she's keeping from the world, something that, perhaps, she is keeping from herself, as well. The interest I took in her in the subway yesterday afternoon has suddenly returned, and she appears to me like an intricate and enchanting mystery that I would love the chance to uncover...

But I know it will likely not come to fruition. In just less than two hours, I will be back on set, back on my throne of fame and fortune, and we will likely never see one another again. It saddens me slightly that she, the first person not caught up in the industry in which I'm involved, will likely be someone I won't be able to carry on a long-term correspondence with. But for now I let that sadness go, and allow myself to be glad that I have the chance to meet with her at all; tell myself that the main purpose of remaining with her is to keep my loyalty to the young boy from the train.

"I know a nice place in Central Park," she informs me. "It might be a little cold, but there's an excellent coffee vendor." A little flash of insecurity goes across her face, and she looks up at me suddenly as though she's just made a dire mistake, saying, "Unless you like tea," as though I might punish her mortally if this is the case.

I can't help laughing, and the sound is so relieving and light as it frees itself from my chest that a couple of people sitting nearby turn to us, and I have to turn casually away to avoid being recognized. "Sorry," I tell her, not wanting her to feel belittled by the laugh, "I would love a cup of coffee."

She offers me that same sheepish smile again, and after a few exchanged looks and nods of concurrence, we are out the doors, and agreeing to take a cab the four blocks to the park, in the interest of keeping anonymity (for us both, I muse, congratulating her on the articles written about her in numerous papers this morning—to which she reacts with a humble shake of her head), and also for the sake of her injury.

"Seriously," I tell her, once we've gotten out of the cab, and out of danger of being eavesdropped upon. "We'll both be in hiding today. But I really believe that you have the better case for being known, of the two of us. It makes me upset that you won't be acknowledged, for as long as you deserve."

"Oh, please," she says, shivering slightly in the chill of autumn around us. The weather has been rainy lately, and now the water beads in the air as the leaves fall from the trees and plaster themselves to the path we walk along. I look at her, curious about what she could intend by her exasperation, but she only shakes her head with a sigh and shrugs her shoulders, which makes her grimace again. "Fifteen minutes, I guess."

I notice the difficulty she takes in continuing in her current state, and, noticing a nearby bench, I suggest that we sit down. She accepts with a nod, and after I've rubbed off the beaded water droplets from the metal bars of the bench, I help her to sit down, before joining her, as we've both agreed coffee isn't quite necessary at this time of day. For a time we sit without speaking, looking out over a small pond on the other side of the pathway, a certain calm dreariness to the floating leaves and slow-moving ducks.

"This is a lovely spot," I tell her after a period of comfortable quiet.

"Sorry I've been so quiet," she says immediately, as though jolting awake from sleep. "I'm a little tired. Exhausted, actually. Hospitals are... draining."

"To say the least," I agree, wondering at her apologetic nature. "Was it the boy, as well?" She nods in the affirmative, reluctantly. "Do you dislike children?" I ask, hoping I haven't misread her look.

"I don't dislike them," she says slowly. "It's a... love-hate relationship."

I feel a light twinge of sadness at the way she tells me this... I can tell that she's someone who had to grow up faster than she should have. And suddenly I find myself wondering just how old she actually is. She's in college, I know, but she seems beyond her years even if she were in her middle twenties. I consider her face for a minute and then manage a smile, despite the strange, hopeful sadness of her. "I understand that completely," I say in response to her last statement, wondering what depths lie beneath her face, the simple nod she gives me In appreciation for my understanding.

I watch her for a moment, thinking of what I might ask her. It's been so long since I've been in a situation with someone other than a coworker, and the lack of assigned roles and duties is like having the net taken away on a trapeze. Slowly, though, I can feel myself slipping back into the old routine of spontaneity and—I realize with a suppressed smile—normalcy.

I'm about to ask her about her life, about what she is pursuing at University, when something behind me captures her eye, and she suddenly looks over my shoulder, frozen solid, with a look of urgency and fear in her eyes.

I look over my shoulder, following her intense gaze, and after a moment I single out a hooded man, standing a distance away by another bench on the other side of the path, looking clearly in our direction. I look at him for a moment, curious as to why he takes such a keen interest in us, and, fairly certain it's not because of me, turn back to her, trying to decipher from her mannerisms what connection they have, or did have. I can tell that, if they do know each other, the relationship was anything but pleasant, for she's become extremely tense and no breath enters or leaves her. It's as though, suddenly, I have disappeared from beside her, and she has turned into a statue with an abundance of terror and life left behind in only her darkening eyes.

"Are you alright?" I ask her, though I know it's a daft question which will make her feel forced to lie.

I think about amending it, but she shakes herself out of her stupor before I can, and, still not looking at me, manages to whisper, hoarsely, "Yes."

I feel compelled to ask her who the man is, but get a distinct feeling that to do so would only upset her, so I look over my shoulder again briefly, seeing the man still there, and then look back at her, deciding that ignoring him, at least on my part, will be the best thing for her. She, in turn, fixes her eyes firmly on me, as though to avoid looking at the hooded man again. She doesn't look directly into my face, but sets about studying the collar of my coat for a minute, before finally checking over my shoulder again with discreet, pained eyes. I can tell by the measure of relaxation in her shoulders that the man is no longer there, and, putting the palm of her hand to her forehead in an apologetic gesture, she sighs shakily.

"I just thought I saw..." she starts, but then her train of thought tumbles away from her, and she moves her hand helplessly in the air for a moment before letting it fall and giving up, finally looking at me, though I can tell that she's not being quite truthful, and I can also tell that she knows I know. "It's nothing," she says. And, for the sake of us both, I nod in understanding, promising subtly with my eyes not to pry into her personal life. After all, we barely know each other.

"We barely know each other," I say once an appropriate length of time has passed, reiterating my thoughts to her. "Would you tell me a bit about yourself? What are you studying?"

"I'm planning on going to medical school," she says, a slight edge of insecurity in her tone.

"No wonder you knew what to do yesterday evening," I tell her. "I truly did admire your instincts. You know, I've played the hero numerous times, pretended, occupied that role in a fictional capacity... But you were a true one, then."

"Really," she says, almost desperately, "You're more of a real-life hero than I'll ever be. You motivate and inspire everyone who sees your work. You donate to countless charities... make powerful statements... You truly have an influence and you use it effectively. That's not so common among people in your position."

I chuckle a little bit, surprised at her knowledge of my dabbling in philanthropy. "How did you know all that?" I say with a light tone.

Her cheeks redden minutely and she lets her chin sink to her chest, the tenseness from her wordless encounter with the hooded man progressively wearing off. "My roommate Alexandra, actually... She's, uh... interested in you. And very vocal about that interest."

"I see," I say, and we both chuckle slightly, but there's a depth to her expression when she looks at me, which cues me in to what she's about to say.

"How do you cope with that?" she says, shifting her small body on the bench with a significant amount of pain, posing her curiosity to me with a gentle grace that tells me this route of discussion is optional. "With the fame? Not being able to escape the limelight?"

It's not a question I receive often, even in the more intimate interviews I've given, and I'm caught slightly off guard by the genuine sensitivity with which she poses it. I exhale deeply, leaning back on the bench and considering how I ought to answer while she looks at me intently. "I believe the fame is worth the expression," I say at length. "I know how cliché that must sound, but it's the truth. I do what I believe does good for the world, and I enjoy my work. Of course, there are times when the attention can cause difficulties. But I haven't become drained by it. And I've found ways to forego it. You didn't at all notice me sitting on the same subway car as you last night."

She smiles at me a little bit, nodding as she thinks over and confirms the legitimacy of my words, appreciating their genuine nature. She sniffles slightly in the cold, looking away after a moment, in the direction of the ducks calmly gliding across the surface of the pond beneath the red and yellow trees.

"What about you?" I ask, after a few minutes of our increasingly comfortable quiet. "Why do you want to be a doctor?"

She doesn't look back at me immediately, though the corner of her mouth twitches a bit in acknowledgement of my question. I wonder if I've inadvertently struck a nerve as she continues to gaze at the ducks, at the leaves falling down to the surface of the pond, being taken slightly off course by the cool breeze.

"Actually," she admits at length, as though in confession, "I've been thinking about that a lot lately. I like the idea of it, of being a healer, of saving lives. But I'm starting to find that in practice..." She shakes her head a bit and scoffs quietly at herself before turning to me finally and admitting, in a great show of courage, "I detest it."

I feel my eyebrows furrow of their own volition, and I look down at where her hands clench between her knees.

"What I truly love," she continues, looking at her hands, as well, "Is literature. Reading, writing... But if I'm being honest, I'm frightened of pursuing that. Of not having a reliable income, a guarantee at being able to inspire and help people... Really, I feel irresponsible for wanting that in the first place. It seems so selfish, when I could be sure of helping humanity in the medical field." She shakes her head at herself and suddenly seems to remember my presence, looking at me with wide eyes as though she expects me to consider her certifiably disturbed. "I'm sorry," she hurries, "that was absolutely too much information."

I shake my head slightly, not sure how to respond; surely, she's caught me off guard with her honesty, but I feel for what she's said, as I, too, have been through this exact crisis, as a younger man. "Not at all," I tell her, shifting my head slightly to catch her gaze with mine. "Actually, I know exactly what you mean. And I don't think pursuing that dream of a creative career is foolish at all."

She looks into my face for a beat longer, and then starts to shake her head slightly, the doubt seeping in. "Easy for you to say," she says quietly. "You're one of the, what, zero point zero zero one percent of artists who actually succeed?"

The ducks suddenly look worthy of envy, gliding calmly over that silver surface of the muddy pool, with the leaves falling around them, heads dunking into the water and rising again. "I'm sorry," I say, surprised but enlightened by her point. "I didn't think about that."

"No," she says, releasing an uncomfortable tension that had suddenly taken hold of her limbs and wincing a little at the resulting pain in her side before recovering. "That was judgmental of me. I'm sorry I said—"

"Please," I interrupt, incapable of bearing her saying sorry any longer. "Please, don't apologize. Really, there's no fault involved." I exhale, slightly upset by the situation, but realizing her correctness as far as my ignorance to my own position had gone when I'd tried to interfere. "I truly don't mean to impose," I continue, probing the waters. "I recognize that it's ridiculous for you to take my word for anything, but... I can empathize with your plight. It was once mine, in a sense. And, truly, I believe that you should pursue what strikes you, what you believe is beautiful and ennobling, both of you as an individual, and of humanity."

I feel slightly silly after saying such things, and realize how philosophical and high-brow I've probably sounded. I look with a measure of caution at her face to gauge her reaction, hoping I haven't gone too far. There's a look of deep consideration and conflicted emotion and logic on her face. But also, slightly, there's an expression of gratitude written there, a gratitude for this unexpected camaraderie I've offered. We share a simple smile that lifts my heart, and I see something quite lovely and honest in her eyes, that makes me wish we'd met in better circumstances, makes me wonder more about her and her life, and makes me, above all, want to help free her from her pain and conflicting...

* * *

**Holly**

My phone rings suddenly, interrupting the moment of warmth, and I stifle a curse as I turn away from his open, supportive, intriguing eyes to retrieve my phone, smiling when I see that the call is from Greg.

"Hi, there," I say into the speaker, "Is Tim out?"

But I promptly realize that I've spoken too soon. My face falls in stages and I feel the blood drain from it as Greg tells me, trying to keep himself from tears, that there had been complications during the surgery, and that Tim is back in a room, riding out a wave of complications that the doctors doubt will end in anything good. I turn to Ben and I know he can tell what the trouble is without my having to say a single word. "He's barely lucid, but he's been asking to see you again," Greg tells me shakily through the phone. "They don't know if... They don't know how much longer..."

"I'm coming back as fast as I can, alright?" I promise him over the phone, and he says something that sounds like too many things at once to be totally decipherable through the speaker, before abruptly hanging up, likely before he can start to cry.

Benedict and I are in another cab back to the Hospital within five minutes, but the four blocks from the park back to the hospital feel like forty, and I can't move fast enough on my God-damned crutch when we finally get out onto the curb and cross the sidewalk into the ironically bright and spacious lobby.

We're stopped by the male nurse who I'd interacted with in Tim's room earlier before we even reach the elevator. He approaches us with his arms out slightly, and a look of devastation and pity on his face that delivers the news before I have to ask.

"Is he alright?" I hear my voice say down a very long tunnel. I am conscious of Benedict's presence beside me, but he keeps growing further and further away as I anticipate the answer I already know to be true.

"His body couldn't handle the complications," he tells us both. Some series of apologies and related statements are made, but I don't hear any of them. From very far away, I think I get the sense that Ben's hand is on my shoulder, steadying me. Perhaps I am tipping over, falling towards the floor. Perhaps he is supporting my weight, leading to my chair. But I don't know if any of this could be true. It seems that, all of a sudden, the meaning I'd placed into Tim, the innocence, the hope, has been crushed, snuffed out as easily as a candle by cruel fate. A devastation takes over my heart like gnarled roots infect a garden. At some point, I become aware of Ben's voice coming towards me from that great distance.

When I arrive in my body again, I'm standing beside Benedict on the sidewalk outside the hospital, and Gregory, Tim's father, is being led into a cab by one of the hospital support staff, just beyond the curb. The cab door is shut and as it drives away, Greg's face looks out through the glass at me, stunned, in a different world, perhaps similar to the one I'd just been trapped in moments ago. Bens hand is on my shoulder and in his other hand he holds his phone up to his ear, speaking measuredly into the speaker.

"—won't be a problem," he's saying to whoever's on the other end. He notices that I'm watching him and looks into my eyes, mouthing something to me, but I can't quite read his lips in my state, so I look away, back down at the curb, trash being run over repeatedly by tire after tire. After a few more seconds, Ben hangs up his phone and pockets it, turning his attention to me.

"This is a terrible time to leave," he says, "but I've just gotten a call from my agent. I have to be back on set soon, and he wants to speak with me ahead of time." I nod vaguely, though I've only caught the basic meaning of his words, and all my comprehension is delayed. "Look," he starts after another moment, drawing a tiny notebook and pen out of his other pocket, scrawling a phone number on it, folding the paper and placing it in my hand, closing my fingers around it carefully.

"I feel like It's not right to leave off this way, and not talk further," he explains, looking at me with slight worry, and I know not to misjudge his intentions.

I manage a nod of agreement in response, but can't make myself speak. I wait another moment and focus on letters, words syllables, sounds. And eventually I work up enough determination to say, "You trust me with this number?"

"Of course," he says, and I have no choice for his tone and eyes but to believe it's the truth.

We part ways and it's only when I'm in the isolation of the cab back to the University campus that I have a chance to look objectively at the hours which have just passed. In an effort to distract myself, if for a short while, from the devastation of Tim's sudden absence from the world, I focus my thoughts on my interactions with Ben.

I am not a fool. I know that attention and affection offered by a man are always followed by sexual demands. But there seems to be something undeniably different about Benedict. I know I will be obligated to be careful around him, if I happen to encounter him again at all, considering the fact that we live in different lifestyles, and he will likely be too busy to follow up with me the way he expressed his wishes that he would. I don't want to be tense, and am truly interested by him, but I also know to be wary. Wariness has kept me alive. Wariness is the only reason I survived seventeen years of living in my father's house, with his constant and unwavering abuse of every kind.

A new wave of horror from the trauma of this morning alone comes over me in the back of the cab and I zone out of my body for a minute before returning to it. That man in the park... the hooded man I'd been incapable of ignoring over Benedict's shoulder... I am certain that he was my father. Of course, there is a possibility that I had only been imagining it was him, after being made anxious about him tracking me down because of the news about my identity and my presence in NYC this morning. But there's always the chance that it wasn't a trick of the imagination, and that it truly was here. And if that is the case, then I am aware that I am truly in terrible danger.

Another pang of distress takes ahold of me as I consider what I might have to say when I get back to the dorm and into Alexandra's company. Alex, since I met her in the beginning of this semester, has made herself very vocal in all groups about taking legal action against abusers and rapists. But I'm not ready to do that as far as my father goes; I'm simply too afraid. And though I love Alex and feel that I understand much about her, we haven't known each other for long enough for me to be confident that, if I told her the true extent of my father's abuse towards me since I was nine years old, she wouldn't pressure me into doing something I'm not prepared to do.

I take advantage of the privacy of the taxi and by the time I've reached the place where I'm dropped off at the edge of the campus, I've gathered my emotions up tightly enough that I'm confident I won't cave under the pressure of social interaction. I bottle up my worry about Greg, my strange grief for Tim, my confusion over what Ben had told me in the park, the illusion of seeing my father... I put it all in a tight box for later unpackaging. But for now, I focus on getting up on my feet and making my way across the campus without attracting too much attention. When I reach the dorm room, I realize that I've been neglecting my pain for so long that it's truly unbearable, and I curl up in my bed and distract myself by contacting the physical therapist who works with the athletic department at school, and scheduling some meetings over the upcoming months. Eventually, the only thing left to do, despite the fact that it's only just after one o'clock, and I haven't eaten much of anything all day, is to fall asleep. So that's exactly what I do.

I'm quick to get the task of informing Alex of the tragedy out of the way as soon as she arrives back from her final class of the day. She's also quick to apologize, and brush it out of our way, knowing the way I prefer to process things alone. But I also soon realize that a part of her brevity is related to an entirely different event.

She explains to me, using the information as an excuse that might help me to distract myself from the impromptu confusion and distress, that there's been a sudden announcement. The community of Cumberbitches, as I've come to understand, has an extremely efficient method of communicating information, probably one of the most efficient and effective of any communication system, even in a professional setting. Through this network, she's discovered that the Man himself is holding a meet-and-greet for some fans this very evening, inside New York. Alex explains to me in her way that she knows I can't refuse that, since she doesn't have any fellow Cumberbitches to go with from campus, she wants me to accompany her. I can't help admitting that going with her is sure to distract me from the situation at hand, which is what I want more than anything else.

But I'm also aware of what might happen if I end up coming face to face with Ben again, for the second time today. I can't possibly keep our knowledge of each other secret from Alex forever, can I? In the end, I have to agree to Alex's whims and she is kind enough at least to not force me to change my clothes. While she's spending altogether too much time dolling herself up in the bathrooms, I take advantage of the privacy of the dorm, and to distract myself from overall dread, I take the slip of paper he'd given me earlier from my pocket. I stare at it for a while, considering his elegant, efficient handwriting, considering the numbers, and the meaning behind them. And after enough time has passed, I set the slip of paper beside me and take out my phone, adding his contact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, my lovelies! I feel so happy and lucky to be able to write this for you guys, I am immensely enjoying it! I'm sure you've gathered as much already, but this is not going to be the most lighthearted of stories. It will definitely get more hopeful as it progresses, but there are some things both of our main characters are going to have to struggle through in the beginning... That's how life goes, after all. And waiting at the end of the tunnel for them both will be a reward worth every trial...
> 
> Thank you always for reading! Let me know your thoughts and feelings! Wishing you well,
> 
> Une-papillon-de-nuit
> 
> 20 July, 2020


	4. Chapter 4: Strangers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so soon, the jig is up. In a relatively short chapter, Alex discovers Holly's poorly-kept secret and Holly, herself, questions her feelings and motives.

**Chapter 4: Strangers | November 2015**

**Benedict**

I've been in a contradictory mood for most of the day, so it's a welcome change of pace to meet with some admirers, exchange small talk and smile for photographs. Myself and some of the other cast members have set up for a meet and greet before we disband from New York, and there has been a steady flow of people coming in to greet me, along with my fellow coworkers. The surface-level interaction distracts me perfectly from the difficulty of the day just past, and the knowledge that, once the hour is over, I will be back on a plane to London, comforts me.

It's always surprising to see how many people take an interest in myself and my work. On most days, to stumble across myself in newspapers and magazines, to see myself on posters and—sometimes—even on t-shirts, takes me aback slightly, and it takes a moment for me to remember who I am, who I signify to the world. On other days I can admit to expecting to be stopped on the street, apprehended; never out of a sense of superiority or big-headedness, but out of a slight fear of my identity, who I have become. Often it's a difficult process to return to my inner self, who I truly am, when, simultaneously, my name and self have become so well-known and idealized.

But on a basic level, I know I am lucky, at least this evening, to be surrounded by people who are kind, and who don't thrust their interest in me upon the situation. It's easy today to settle into the pattern of hellos, photographs, signatures, and farewells, and after a time, though I take the time to appreciate each individual, every face begins to blur into the next, and I know that something is not quite right in my heart, for I feel exhausted under my personable, energetic surface.

Something about that little boy... And something about the young woman, about Holly Whitaker... My thoughts and heart won't be let alone by the sheer confusion of the tragedy—and also the enlightenment and human simplicity—of the day. I want to sit down and analyze my feelings, but I know I will have ample time to do so on the seven hour flight from here to London. And so, though it's difficult, I suppress my inner turmoil and maintain my jovial, easygoing temperament as I ask admirers about their lives, wish them well, thank them for their generous complements.

A kind young woman Ruth, who has been keeping me up to date on my schedule throughout my stay here in New York, slips to my side after almost an hour has passed and warns that I'll have to say my goodbyes to the fans in five minutes. She hands me a coffee, which I never requested, but which she must have known I was in need of, anyway, and I thank her with a smile before she disappears again. I finish up a few more pictures with a group of friendly men and women in their thirties, and just when the hour is nearly up, I spot her across the gradually emptying room.

Most of my admirers came in an early flood, and there's a pair of young women between myself and Holly, as the others have gone to interact with the other actors, or have already left after an announcement that the meet-and-greet will be ending in just under three minutes. I greet the two young ladies, take a few pictures with them, and send them on thier way, just as Holly and another young woman, who I gather must be the roommate she'd mentioned at the park earlier, approach.

I can tell instantly that Holly is mortified at being here, and it's more than clear that she's been dragged across the city by her friend, who drags her along with difficulty given her limp and crutch. I put on my best smile, patching over the surprise at encountering her here, and the pain that the sight of her has stirred up in my heart.

"Hello," I say, in an ambiguous way, as I can't be sure whether Holly has informed her friend of our being acquainted.

"Hi," says the other young woman with an excited exhale. "I'm Alex, and this is Holly. It's an absolute honor to meet you!"

I grin back at her, and with a short but very meaningful glance shared with Holly, quickly deduce that, not only has she not informed Alex of our interaction, but that she also prefers to keep it that way. With respect to her wordless message I decide against talking with her in a familiar way, and, instead, say, "It's wonderful to meet you both. Gracious, what happened here?"

I gesture to her crutch, and she gives me a slight look of amusement at how easily I've established a false lack of connection between us. But I notice that she, too, is adept at pretending, for she opens her mouth slightly and stutters a little, to keep her friend under the impression that we're strangers.

Alex laughs lightly, and lowers her voice, leaning in a little closer to say, "She actually was caught in a shooting in the subway last night," she informs me.

"Please, Alex, don't," says Holly, not having to act as far as her embarrassment goes. I smile at her, and react to the situation accordingly.

"I heard about that," I say, noticing the look of protest on Holly's face, and I quickly decide to steer us away from that line of conversation before too much pain is drawn up, and before Holly and I have a chance to make a slip of the tongue and make ourselves suspicious to Alex.

"Could I get a picture?" Alex asks brazenly, pulling out her phone and smiling.

"Of course," I tell her with another smile, and Holly reaches out to take Alex's phone for her while I put my arm around Alex. I watch Holly lean against her crutch, getting the camera ready, and while Alex is caught off guard, I take advantage of the moment and make the telephone signal with my other hand, so that Holly can see. She catches my eye for a split second, and then looks away and readjusts her weight on the crutch, holding up the phone.

"Okay," she says, with a double meaning of answering my wordless question and brining Alex to attention. Her tone is admirably light, given the stress of her day, the pain I'm sure she's still riding out, and the tenseness of the current situation itself. "Say cheese!"

Both Alex and I comply with her request, and Holly takes a few pictures before bringing the phone down and handing it back to Alex. I open my arm and look at Holly with the suggestion of taking a picture or two with her, in turn, but she politely declines with a shake of her head and a limp motion of her hand through the air. "Thank you," she says, not to be rude, and I shake my head in understanding.

Ruth appears nearby again promptly, and taps on her wristwatch, signaling that it's time to go. I nod at her and then return my attention to Holly and Alex. "Thank you so much for stopping by, ladies. I'm afraid I have a plane to catch. It was lovely meeting you both."

"You, too!" Alex exclaims, and grins broadly at me before turning away. Just as Holly is following her on her crutch, I catch her eyes and we share one more meaningful look before I finally wave them farewell, and Alex reaches back to help Holly out of the room. I look after them for a moment before going to say goodbye to some of my fellow cast members before accompanying Ruth in a cab to the airport. But the focus of my thoughts is that I hope I wasn't too obvious with Holly, and that I haven't inadvertently started anything between them...

* * *

**Holly**

Alex has been worried about me all evening and night especially after, when we were on the subway on our way to meet Benedict, I told her about how I've been feeling regarding possibly switching my major to English, come the spring semester. When I told her she looked extremely concerned for my sanity, and I couldn't help blaming her. For the remainder of the ride and the delay in traffic aboveground that caused us to have to take a detour and wind up late to the meet-and-greet, she was extremely careful around me, keeping her tone gentle, not being too rough and being sure not to walk too fast. I detested that sensitivity.

But now, as we return to the dorm room after a subway ride of very rigid silence that only made me more and more afraid as time wore on, I wish for that sensitivity. Anything would beat the reeled-in annoyance that she expresses, now.

"I can't believe you would do this, Holly!" she exclaims, a look of absolute betrayal on her face as we sit on our separate beds facing each other. After she expressed her deep suspicion at the few meaningful looks she'd seen Ben and I exchange, I was forced to tell her the truth about what happened both last night when he encountered me outside the low library, and the interaction we had when he showed up at the hospital earlier today. She's infuriated, to say the least.

"This is exactly why I didn't say anything, Alex," I say, keeping my voice level. "You would have thrown a fit. I swear, I didn't even recognize him the first time!"

"I was literally watching Sherlock for the hundredth time when you came in last night!" she exclaims, having a hard time keeping her voice down for the excitement ripping through her body and mind.

"Which only proves I was in the right," I say. "At least at the moment. Sure, I should have told you I saw him again at the hospital, but I had a lot on my mind. Okay?"

More than anything, I'm afraid that my acquaintance with Ben will somehow interfere with the relationship Alex and I have been carefully developing since the beginning of the semester. I know just from the way she's reacted to my having met him that telling him I have his phone number will be an impossibility until further notice. The only comfort I have is that I know Ben will likely get caught up in his own separate life, and we will go different ways in the near future. Then this little episode of coincidence will evaporate like so many others, and Alex and I will be troubled by it no longer.

...But, then again, the thought of my acquaintance with Ben so soon fading away isn't necessarily a pleasant or relieving one. When we were in the park today I genuinely felt a connectivity to him, and though I know to be cautious around new people, especially men, and men of his sort, with power and status, I can't help but see his gesture of the phone number as a gesture of reaching out in kindness to me in a difficult point in both our lives, punctuated by the coincidence of the event on the subway, not to mention the tragedy of the young boy Tim.

"I just... I don't really even know what to say to you right now," Alex says, breaking me out of my quiet thoughts. "I guess, I think it's really cool that you happened to meet him, and... I don't know what to think." I can tell that she's conflicted between the act of confusion and betrayal and the extreme excitement she feels underneath, but I can understand her hesitancy in changing her mannerisms. I'm sure, before long, she'll be excitedly asking me for every detail about our interactions. For now, I decide to let her sit still in the complication of the fact itself.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I wouldn't have known what to say. And I won't lie and say that I would have been champing at the bit to let you know about him if tonight hadn't happened."

She nods her head up and down, and I'm grateful that the base of our relationship continues to be honesty with each other about our feelings and our lives—apart from one gaping hole, the matter of my childhood abuse, which I still have yet to address, and which I can only hope she will understand my reluctance about when the time does come.

"I'm going to take a shower," she tells me, excusing herself from the room, taking her bag of toiletries and a new change of clothes out of the room with her. Before she leaves, she turns around with a smile on her face, and I return it in relief, glad that she's not going to decide to hold a grudge, even if I know it might take a few days for her initial annoyance to wear off.

Once alone in the dorm, I take some more Advil in the vain hope that it might quell my pain, if only slightly, though the pills have been doing barely anything for the wound over the course of the day. I check my email to find various responses from my professors regarding my being excused from today's classes, and some kind words praising me for my act of kindness, hoping that I'll be feeling better, soon. I read the emails from some of my medical field professors with a slight twinge of guilt—the conversation with Ben in the park has really gotten me thinking about what I might want to do regarding my dreams of pursuing literature... But I know I'm in too much pain both physically and emotionally to process anything more than going to sleep for the moment.

So, in an act of bravery, I decide to forego studying tonight, and I put away my anxieties about the things that will need to be done tomorrow morning, climbing into bed with my phone, one last thing on the mental checklist before I'll be able to (hopefully) fall asleep and get away from all of this until the morning.

I go to Benedict's contact in my phone and start to compose a text message, considering and re-typing once or twice before finally settling for "Hey, there. It's Holly. I hope you have a safe flight," and sending it with a decisive exhale.

The last thought in my mind before I slip into a troubled sleep is: _what have I gotten myself into?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, all! Sorry, there wasn't as much happening in this chapter as there was in the others! I couldn't bring myself to lengthen Chapter 3, and in the next chapter there's going to be a time shift back to the present (2020). So, here's a little baby chapter to avoid overcomplicating things! And don't worry, I will be sure to pay you back for the brevity of this one! I'm overjoyed that so many people are reading... PLEASE Let me know what you're thinking and feeling about the story!
> 
> Thank you for your loyalty and your general amazingness!
> 
> Une-papillon-de-nuit
> 
> 20 July, 2020


	5. Chapter 5: The Dangers of Falling Behind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in the present-day, both Holly and Benedict continue to reckon with the obstacle before them... and the obstacles that must be uncovered from the past.

**Chapter 5: The Dangers of Falling Behind | July 2020 (Present Day)**

**Holly**

It's with some embarrassment that I tell Benedict I have to leave the room for a moment to use the restroom. He's been speaking almost nonstop and with no interruption from me for the past hours, telling me the story of our meeting, and though I've been listening with more caution and effort than I've ever listened to anyone else in my life—as far as I can remember—I haven't been successful in actually remembering anything he's told me. And this fact makes me feel incredibly helpless and depressed, on top of my already reeling confusion and emotional fatigue from the weight of the story itself.

In the very least, I think he feels just as exhausted as I do, for when I meekly place a hand on his forearm and tell him I'll be right back, there's an expression of relief in his eyes alongside the more prominent distress which has filled those beautiful orbs more and more as he's continued speaking, that silken voice growing gravelly with effort and discouragement.

I get up from the couch, the loss of my weight making barely any difference, and I leave him there without letting myself glance back, as I pad silently through the door of the bedroom—our bedroom—and shut myself in the bathroom. After locking the door—a knee jerk instinct that I instantly regret doing, though I don't have the bravery to unlock it again—I turn to the sink and twist on the cold tap, cupping my hands and filling them with the frigid water, submerging my face, holding my breath, trying to become numb.

But it's only so long before I have to come up again, see my face in the mirror, my eyes, my body barely changed, but a few nearly imperceptible differences in the set of my jaw, the way it seems my face has been free of the stress I endured for my first seventeen years of life. It's an unfamiliar look, this face—one of peace and comfort, one of being protected, both my myself, and by another. I submerge my face a second time, and then pinch myself on the arm, the cheek, the neck. I slap myself across the face. But this isn't a dream. And none of my memories return.

After a minute I decide to turn the tap off, not wanting to waste water, though the rush of the tap had leant me a false sense of privacy. When I thought of losing memory before all this, I thought of the way the woods looks from a fast-moving train window. The way that the woods looked when I hopped a train from New Jersey to New York City at seventeen years old, to escape my father: a vague blur of color and depth, a knowledge of what is there, but an inability to pick out specifics. But this memory loss is different entirely. Here, there is not even a vague feeling or sense of the larger picture. When I had looked out the train window, I had been conscious of the fact that I was looking at woods. But now, I am only looking at shapeless, nameless gray.

I pull up the loose-fitting tank top that this future body of mine is wearing, and examine the scar on my abdomen, near my side—the scar from the gunshot on the subway, I know now, from Benedict's detailed retelling of the very early beginnings of our acquaintance. It's a wonder to me now, at eighteen, when I can't remember even setting foot in that fateful train car on that fateful day, that I would ever do something so bold as to jump forward and help to give care to a little boy. I can't imagine myself ever being capable of such a feat, and I can't blame him for describing me as a hero now, though, I'm sure, in the past (or, in the future, from my mental standpoint) I protested that term, hero, with all my might.

After a minute or two of staring at that gunshot wound, the flesh slightly disfigured from the surgery five years ago, my mind wanders to things unseen... The pregnancy. The news of which had caused me to lose all sense of time and coordination, which had caused me, ultimately, to lose consciousness earlier. It's difficult to accept the idea as fact. But, more complex than carrying the beginnings of a child inside of me is the knowledge of how that, too, came to be—the fact of this future version of me having a sexual relationship with Ben. And even more than the physical aspect, the awareness that pregnancy on its own signifies a relationship far deeper than I ever could have expected, is overwhelming beyond comprehension. In fact, I feel so overwhelmed on my own that I know the only option even resembling sanity in this situation, is to put the whole ordeal of it away until I can sort the rest of myself out and return to it later with a clearer mind. If a clearer mind ever becomes reality.

I let the shirt fall over my skin, the scar tingling when the fabric brushes against it, and I rinse my face again, steadying myself on the counter and breathing deeply to banish my lightheadedness, feeling nauseous from all of these horrors.

And as I let my breath come more slowly, and feel the cool of the beading water as it dries on my face, my thoughts wander to Benedict himself.

I cannot help but feel conflicted when I reflect on his nature. It upsets me more than anything that, though he's been fiercely exercising his very best efforts, no real memory has returned to me. I feel an instinctive familiarity with him, one which i cannot help. In the blurred landscape of five years, Benedict is the only thing which I can partially recognize at all. I don't know the story he's been telling, but the way he tells it, the sound of his voice—so rich and soothing, comforting as anything could be in this situation—as he speaks, the emotion in his eyes... That I do feel that I know, even if I don't remember learning it in the beginning.

Everything about him seems familiar and comfortable, in a way that is comparable to breathing air, to walking, to blinking. But I am so disconnected from him at the same time. For, though I trust him, my mind, my memory, has still never met him, despite his efforts to bring me—my twenty-three year old, present self—back to life. We are both equally helpless in the face of this nonsensical, inexplicable event.

As I stare at myself I try to puzzle out what could have actually happened to make me forget so much, so suddenly. Though I try (and it's not difficult to remember the passages, as, in my head, I've only just been reading them a week or so ago), I can't recall any medical explanation for this sort of thing. All of the types of amnesia which I've studied are either different entirely from this, or are related to age and head wounds. I am too young and healthy for any of the known types to be the case. I wonder if, in an extremely rare case, this sort of thing could result—impermanently—from stress at my environment. Perhaps it could have something to do with the rigorous and quick changes to society under the Coronavirus, which Ben has taken great pains in explaining to me. Perhaps it could have resulted from shock at the pregnancy...

But no matter how many times I attempt to give my affliction a name, a purpose, a textbook definition and explanation, I can only fail to do so, can only work myself deeper into confusion and anger.

From all of these roiling thoughts and feelings, however, surfaces the most chilling fact Ben has given me over the past hours: the fact that, when we were sitting on that bench in the park across from the pond and the ducks, I spotted a man in a hood, watching us, and that this man was my father.

Suddenly, I find myself down on my knees, bending over the toilet with my knuckles white as I clutch the seat—and then, even more quickly, I find myself becoming sick, over and over, terrible, recurring waves of stress and weakness overcoming my body. It passes in enough time that I have reason to believe it's a result of the pregnancy. But despite the ridiculous ease with which I can simply press down on the handle and flush the evidence of the sickness away, the evidence of my inner distress lingers, and I don't have the strength to get up from the bathroom floor, instead slumping against the opposite wall and starting to sob, giving up on keeping myself silent for the sake of dignity.

Benedict arrives outside the bathroom door—or, at least, makes his presence known there—a few moments later, with a light knock and a dampened, sorrowful, "Holly? Let me help you..."

He coos so that I have no choice but to get up from the floor with difficulty, and to rinse my mouth out between gasping sobs, all the time supporting my weight by leaning on the toilet, leaning on the towel rod, the countertop. Trying to restrain my crying but failing and knowing that continuing my efforts to do so is foolish and also selfish, given Benedict's own turmoil, I give in and open the door, going through the doorway on wavering legs, to slump against Ben's waiting chest.

After a moment of surprise at my actions, he embraces me back, tentatively, and eventually more tightly, until I am wrapped up entirely in his arms, his heavenly scent, the heavenly gentle strength of his body, and my cries ebb. I can feel something so warm and familiar in his embrace, and I return it eventually with my own, until my tears stop coming, and I can breathe again. We remain there for a good time after, though, and there's something terribly painful and terribly wonderful in this embrace. It's something that I want back. Something that I once had. Hell—something I had just yesterday.

At length, I manage to draw back from him slightly, still holding onto him for life, as he continues to hold me close to him with his gentle hands, only separating my body from his enough to look up into his face. I can see that tears have come into his own eyes, and a horrible sadness is inside of him, which devastates but also affirms me, for it means we are together.

"I feel terrible for not remembering," I tell him, barely whispering for the hoarse tightness of my throat. The words are directly from my hateful, deserted heart, and they almost send me back into helpless sobbing, but he brings me back to his chest in such a way that I cannot help but exhale in relief.

"There is nothing to forgive," he tells me, his voice sounding low and honest in his chest, against my warm ear, pressed against his soft shirt.

After standing there for an immeasurable length of time, we pull ourselves away from one another, very cautiously, one limb, one joint at a time, and stand apart. He suggests that we have some lunch, if I think my stomach can handle it, and I agree that trying to eat a little something might help my system to balance itself out. Like ghosts, edging past and beside each other along the hallway, we go into the kitchen, and even as we settle into the ironically domestic task of preparing sandwiches, I can't help but let in the inkling that there's something terrible he's avoiding.

* * *

**Benedict**

_How am I supposed to tell her?_

This is the question that won't leave my mind, encircles and cages it, stalks my every thought and emotion as I put myself to the task of making a ginger tea for her stomach while she finishes plating the sandwiches. I can look at her from time to time out of the corner of my eye, but then have to turn back to the kettle, incapable of holding her in my eye for long before becoming plagued by a terrible inner trembling. I am tempted, terribly, to lie to her. To skirt around the horrific subject which my mind obsesses over, the next significant event to take place in the story of our conjoined pasts. If I could only cause her less pain in the story of her past—or her future, I suppose—then I would choose that option. But knowing the injustice I would do by lying to her, even to protect her from short-term anguish, I know that the only thing for me to do is to tell the truth.

I gaze at her again from across the expanse of the kitchen, the angle of her shoulder, the curve of her side, the way her neck bends as she focuses. I wonder what is contained within her head, that strong, beautiful head which I've come to look at again and again like that of a statue, observing and admiring her beauty, wondering at what mysteries might lie within her. As I'm sure, she is wondering what mysteries lie in mine. As she turns her head slightly to the side, in a way that makes me know she feels my gaze, a tingle of longing takes hold in the pit of my insides, and I have to turn my head suddenly to keep from crying out in a quiet, private pain.

I want to hold her so badly, to pull her body close to mine, the way I did outside the bathroom just minutes ago, but for her to know my body, to have no fear of it. I want to touch her lips with mine, to show her how much I love her, to cherish her physical form. But I know that doing so will take time and trust. It would be impossible now to show her the bodily affection we'd grown accustomed to before this morning... the physical oneness we'd shared all the way until last night, the night before I returned this morning to find her changed, to find her gone, as though I'd never been in her mind. Which, given the sheer intensity with which I love her, makes me feel as though I'd never been at all, in any capacity, in or out of her memory.

If only she could recall all of what we've survived side by side, recall the tenderness of just last night... Last night... The touches of skin, of lips and hands, that intense gentleness we've worked so hard to achieve and sustain—

"Ben?"

I resurface from my thoughts at the sound of her voice, and turn to look at her, standing there with the sandwich plates in hand, turned to me, looking as though she's been trying to get my attention for a long while, and I haven't' been hearing. The tea kettle is whining.

After a few uncomfortable half-formed statements and movements, always avoiding one another's bodies and eyes, we find our way back to the couch in the sitting room. We sit down and she nibbles at her sandwich quietly, while we are surrounded by our books. They are the evidence of our inner kingdom of common thought and love, each book a building block, whose significance she can no longer recall—some of which I'm sure she cannot even remember reading at all.

Eventually, she's nibbled through half of her sandwich and then abandoned it on the plate, and she sips on her tea, looking like she thinks she might be ill again. Frequently she looks up at me and manages the whisper of a smile, but there's something in her eyes that tells me she knows she can't quite trust me at the moment. She's wondering about me behind that delicate forehead, she knows I'm in the process of making a decision that could be to her grave, grave detriment.

"Holly," I say to her once she's looked up at me in this manner and then back down into her tea as though hoping to find the contents of my thoughts there too many times for me to bear. She looks up at me again as I speak, but in a different manner, expectant, hopeful, wanting very, very badly to trust. And I know I cannot betray her. "There's something I'm going to tell you soon, and you're not going to enjoy hearing about it."

"I know," she tells me, simply. She looks at me curiously, the fear in her eyes clearing slightly as she realizes I won't tell her a lie by omission, and then a new fear entering in its place, a new fear of what the past might hold. She stops drinking her tea and instead situates the cup on her protruding knee, warming her trembling hands round the sides of it. I situate myself on the couch, trying to be offensive in my stature, and I start again, working my way up to the point of pain, the point of no return.

"After I left New York, we kept up a steady correspondence. I returned to work, and you, come second semester, changed your major to English, and started writing again. You were overjoyed, you told me you hadn't felt better in all your life. You even sent me some copies of your stories."

At this, I see her face light up in equal parts hope and terror, and I smile a little, knowing that, before me, she'd never shared any of her writing with anyone. "Was it any good?" she can't help asking me, and I let my smile become warmer, deciding against holding my deep emotion for her back.

"It was far more than good," I assure her, and she smiles lightly, settling back into the couch and telling me to continue with her eyes. I savor the look of contentment on her face, knowing that, now, I have to crush it.

"And then..." I manage with a shaking voice, her eyes darkening instantly. "February came. I was in London filming a special episode of Sherlock, and you were starting out physical therapy with Alexandra, taking advantage of the early spell of spring in New York..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, I want to let you all know in advance that there are going to be some intense situations in the next chapter. I'm not making anything too explicit, but sexual assault will be strongly referenced, and I don't want to startle anyone. Thus, this warning. Please reach out to me if you want to discuss the events that will take place! I'm happy to have a conversation with anyone who needs support.
> 
> On a lighter note... I am a little embarrassed to tell you that I screwed up the timeline I originally had planned for this story. Yikes. *hides under covers* ...I had the wrong dates for the filming of Doctor Strange, which is the film set Benedict is supposed to be working on in NYC for this story. (If anybody has found a list or schedule of filming dates or the like for Benedict's movies, I would be abundantly grateful to have it). I've already worked the rehearsals and performances of the London National Theatre's Hamlet (wow... just... A stunning production) into some upcoming chapters, but I realize now that it was actually in the summer of 2015, before the filming of Doctor Strange in November. So... oops.
> 
> I think I'm going to go ahead and write it the way I was planning it, but there will be a little lapse in the timing / logic that you guys will have to forgive me for. This sort of mistake on my part irritates me to no end, and I can only hope that you won't be too thrown off by it! Next chapter will be set in the early spring of 2015, and I will probably end up mentioning Doctor Strange again at the end of 2015 in the story's timeline.
> 
> I'm super sorry for this slip-up and for ranting about it! But I'm glad I caught it before things got too serious!
> 
> Hope you are all holding up wonderfully,
> 
> Une-papillon-de-nuit
> 
> 20 July, 2020


	6. Chapter 6: Fate's Cruel Plot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected figure from Holly's past shows up in Central Park. Benedict, though back in London, feels the urge to reach out. Holly receives an ultimatum from fate, and finally opens up to Alex.

**Chapter 6: Fate's Cruel Plot | February 2015**

**Holly**

It's February and the woman from whom I've sought out help with my physical recovery has advised that I—at last—start jogging again. Alex, who's been complaining about the slight bit of weight she's gained over this first year of college education, has come out with me, and we've settled on a simple route in Central Park. It's still morning, and though February has brought an early bout of semi-spring warmth, the cold of winter still hangs on in the air, and my legs, which have already fallen out of practice with exercise, are miserably stiff.

"Just be grateful you didn't pick up the freshman fifteen," says Alex as we jog along the paved way between a stand of woods and a closed-down fountain. I've been breathing steadily throughout the duration of our light recreation, but my side has been slower in adjusting, and some of the pain which has been under control for a while comes back psychosomatically as my heart thrums in my chest from the work.

"That's not necessarily a good thing," I tell Alex, not trying to suppress the minor annoyance I feel at her words, though I don't let out the full force of my disapproval. I've actually lost weight over the past year, since there were times at which I was so stressed or—after Tim's death—so sad that I would forego eating altogether. On most days, I would only give up and nibble on something when the fatigue grew so bad it threatened my sleep or my exam scores. It's not that I was starving myself, for my years spent hovering just at the poverty line through childhood have taught me how valuable food can be. Not to mention the trouble I already have accepting my body, and the fact that my mind couldn't cope with an eating disorder atop all the other trauma. It's only that over the past semesters, I've become so overloaded and distracted that sustenance had come to a point of simply not seeming important anymore, and eating would become very easy to simply forget.

"Sorry," Alex says to me through a gasp, as we continue to jog side by side, keeping one another's pace in check.

Despite the unexpected sadnesses which confronted me earlier in the year, my general level of contentment with myself as an individual, as well as with my life on a larger scale, has risen dramatically since my decision to change my major to literature—a choice influenced and encouraged greatly by Benedict.

Our relationship has progressed slowly and steadily, given that we both have very rigid schedules. But when we both find moments of freedom, that happen to align with our separate time zones (his are more complex and vary quite frequently, as he's dragged all over the world, often, for his work), we have taken to calling or messaging each other, not merely to pass the time, now, but genuinely to come to know and find kinship in one another. I am aware that such closeness can often result from sharing a specific traumatic event, which, in our case, would be the death of the boy Tim. Yet, over these months, our relationship has become more than that; a genuine understanding of each other, and an unwavering interest which only seems to grow with time, has become implicit in our now-daily interactions.

"So," says Alex, interrupting my train of thought, but seeming to have read my mind. "How has he been doing?"

Alex and Benedict have exchanged a few mild words of greeting and farewell over the phone, often when I've been on a phone call with him. I've talked to him about my relationship with her to a great extent, telling him how lucky I am to have such a great friend. She still seems dumbfounded most of the time that my connection to him is legitimate, but by now, my communication with him has been established enough that she can approach it with enough casualness for her involvement to be bearable to me.

"Come on, you don't have to say it like that," I say with a chuckle through heavy breathing. "He's doing just as fine as usual. Working on something for a certain TV show you may or may not have seen a few times..."

She reaches out and slaps my arm lightly with her hand mid-stride at my deadpan tone, and grins at me. "Don't be so harsh," she chides playfully. "But... is he, really?"

I nod my head to the affirmative, noticing a water fountain at the side of the path and internally groaning at the knowledge that it won't be in working order yet, given the season. My side has been developing a horrible stitch that happens to reside very close to the place where the gunshot wound fully healed roughly two weeks ago. And now that the pain in my side has been growing for some time, it triggers a measure of pain that originates directly from the healed wound, a memory of pain, something psychosomatic—but it doesn't help me to overcome the pain the slightest bit by knowing that it isn't real.

"Alex," I manage after a few more strides, deciding that, if I go on much longer without getting this ridiculous psychological hurt out of my head, I'll overextend and exhaust myself. "I have to take a minute," I continue, starting to slow down, but encouraging her to keep her hard-earned pace. "I'll catch up!" I assure her after a beat, and she waves her hand in acknowledgement, leaving me to lean against the dormant water fountain holding my side as she fades away down the path and disappears entirely around a bend.

I cringe privately to myself and focus my breathing, stretching out my side until I've assured myself that the pain is not coming from the healed wound at all, but a simple stitch in my side from the jogging. After a minute or so has passed, I realize that it was probably a good thing I decided to stay back, and not only because of the pain...

I have come to worry over the more recent weeks whether Alex's reactions to my closeness with Benedict border on ones exhibiting a slight jealousy. After all, she is the one who has always taken an interest in his talents and his work. I had never, before meeting her, even been remotely aware of his existence, and even after meeting her hadn't taken nearly as much of an interest in him as she did. And for me, given the circumstances, to have attracted his attention—in whatever capacity—by a series of coincidences, is upsetting to her. It's been a constant worry, especially lately, as I've begun to develop certain confusing feelings for Ben on my own, that my ever-growing proximity to him might cause my relationship with Alexandra to suffer. So, it's a good thing that I've lingered behind from her a few minutes this morning, so that I can get my own thoughts and feelings sorted out, without running the risk of stumbling upon a dangerous line of conversation with her regarding Benedict.

I'm tempted to take a moment on the park bench, to breathe and sort out the jumble of emotions feeding the phantom pain in my side. But I know that if I do so, I'll only fall further and further behind Alex, dangerously so, even. And as the thought enters my mind, I begin to worry about her. I can almost physically see the space between us growing greater and greater as she continues to jog ahead and I linger behind, and the idea of her alone in the early morning in the park, makes a stab of fear strike my heart.

Quickly my worry for her overcomes the pain—both legitimate and phantom—and I start to wring my hands slightly as I consider what can be done. I deduce in a short amount of time that, given my own physical state, and the fact that it will take me a while to catch up to her, given my shorter stature and slower speed—the most effective option will be to take the trail through the short patch of woods. If I do so, then I will reach this exact path as it loops around the woods, in under a minute. I should intercept Alex on her path almost exactly, give or take a few seconds.

So, working through the phantom pain, which intensifies every second to my severe worry, I manage to pull myself up and start walking at a manageable pace down the path through the woods. A unique breed of exhaustion crawls out to my limbs from the phantom pain in my recently healed side, and the tingling pain is so intense that I cannot help wondering whether something is wrong... But I know that if I become still, now, then I will run the risk of not being able to get through the woods at all, and if I can at least get to Alex, then I'll have strength in numbers. If the pain doesn't wear off soon, I'll have to make a trip to the doctor.

I suppose I'm halfway through the stretch of trees—garbage among the roots, amidst stretches of mud and snow—when my ears detect a sound behind me. I think extremely little of it, sure that it must merely be a shower of water droplets being shaken from a treetop as they melt, and continue on my way. But only moments later the sound repeats itself, with a varying degree of volume, and I understand all at once that somebody must be behind me. I turn my head to look over my shoulder as I slow my walking pace, sure that this someone must be simply someone passing through the trail, themselves, not pursuing me deliberately (though my pain does send my mind nearly down that rabbit hole before I pull it back).

But upon turning around I find that I was more than correct in entertaining that creeping feeling of danger. For, standing just off the pathway, half of his body concealed behind a tree, the other half exposed to me, is a man in a sweater. The same sweater which I'd noticed in the park with Benedict when we had first spoken to each other between hospital visits in November of last year.

He stares at me from beneath the hood of that damned sweater. And I stare at him, suddenly conscious of my body—its smallness, its lack of strength when compared to that possessed by a man—in a way I haven't had to be for more than a year.

"Holly," my father says. His voice strikes a chord of pain and horror deep within me, so instantly and with such strength that I find myself immediately frozen, immobile, as though I've been turned to stone. "I am very disappointed in you, Holly," he tells me, revealing himself from behind the tree, stepping toward me menacingly. I can see him grinning beneath his hood, grinning with the knowledge that he has me entirely trapped.

"Why did you wait," I hear myself say down a very long tunnel. I curse myself for attempting to accuse him, attempting to match him. But I am separate from myself, I cannot help, and yet I cannot look away, in this far off place from which I now watch my body's impending attack unfold.

This situation is all too familiar to me. It's happened hundreds upon hundreds of times before, years worth of daily physical standoffs between my father and myself throughout my childhood and teenage years, all of which have ended in failure on my part, and victory for him. And I know instantly, though a part of me wants to believe that I've gained some strength and power of will over the year and a half between my escape from him and this current standoff, that I am not going to get out of this. It's at least half a minute even at a sprint to reach the path, he will catch me if I try to run and only make it hurt more, and if I try to scream, he will do the same.

He chuckles and closes the gap further between his body and my own, and I'm forced to tilt my head back to look up at his evil face. "I waited," he says, with his general air of threatening condescension and disgusting seduction, "to drive you insane." And I know by his voice and the glint in his malicious eyes—those eyes I should have clawed out when I had the chance—that he knows just how much turmoil he's caused me by showing up that one day in the park and then avoiding me for so long. It would be a lie to claim that I haven't been kept up nights, worrying, doubting my sanity, believing so strongly that I'd seen him, but wanting to believe so desperately that it had only been a vision, the product of an overworked subconscious.

He comes closer once more and rakes his reprehensibly familiar fingers from my collarbone, down... lower and lower, pulling my shirt free from my shoulder. And I sob, shaking with all the violence of a leaf in a tempestuous wind, barely holding on. And then, when his body at last closes the gap, and his hand presses over my mouth and nose to prevent me from protesting, I force my consciousness to shut the door on my body—a practiced skill.

And with that I recede into a cold, tiny room, sitting and waiting, shaking back and forth with an uncontrollable shame and terror, wondering whether this will be the end of it all, while my helpless body is tackled to the muddy ground.

* * *

**Benedict**

I'm fleshing out a scene with Martin on a break when my cell begins to jitter in my pocket. I take it out, gesturing for him to continue, and glance at it, finding it odd that Holly would call me at this time, when she knows I'm in the middle of shooting. It's early there, too, so I'm sure it's an accidental call, and hang up, pocketing my cell again and returning my attention to the scene we've been rehearsing for the past ten minutes.

But, in the middle of my next line, she calls a second time, and I know in my very being that something bad must have happened. I look to Martin, who stares at my cell and gives me a meaningful look of permission to leave, if I need to.

"I'm so sorry," I say to him, a few traces of Sherlock's aloofness remaining in my tone, for the rapid switch between character and reality. "Please excuse me for just a minute." He nods his head in the affirmative, a certain quality of worry in his eyes as I stand up from my chair and move to a more private corner of the set, answering the call.

I'm huddling in a corner and preparing to say Holly's name, but I don't have a chance before the sound of her friend Alexandra, in hysterics, fills the speaker. I can't even pick out words from the jumble of worry and fear, and I have to tell her to slow down three times before I can understand a few statements, strung together by indistinct sobs and warbled syllables of grief. It takes minutes before I can help her to calm herself enough to form distinct sentences, and even longer to encourage her to tell me what's happened.

I feel all the blood drain from my head, and my hands and limbs turn cold as she tells me what happened. There are only a few sentences that I really retain: on a run... separated... found in the woods... father back... broken rib... still unconscious...

"I, um..." she says, after a few moments of hysterical sobbing have passed, and I hear her breath rattle through the phone speaker as she tries to get herself under control. If there's anything about this situation that I can be grateful for, it is that Holly has a friend as concerned and considerate as Alex at her side, since I am incapable of being present for her physically. "I... Feel really guilty about calling you, actually. She's been passed out, and I took her phone without her knowing, but... I just, needed to tell somebody who I know she trusts, and you're the only other one. I don't know if she'll talk to me when she does wake up and... Oh, God, how do I say this?"

Again I hear her exhale tearfully and the part of my mind controlling language snaps to attention after a spell of shocked, distressed dormancy.

"Alex," I say, in a tone that, gratefully, sounds steady and full of assurance, though my insides are tatters of sadness, confusion and—dare I say it—more than a healthy dose of anger. "You don't have to take care of this alone," I tell her. "I'll have to leave you for now, but... I promise you. I'll call her later today, and help all that I can. Keep me posted?"

I can practically hear her nodding her head in gratitude over the phone, and she sniffles a few times, mumbling something to herself before finally managing a distracted "Goodbye."

I echo her—or, at least, I think that I do—before hanging up the phone, pocketing it, and returning, rattled, to sit across from Martin, feeling all the time that I'm either about to trip and fall or accidentally break something.

"Something awry?" Martin asks, worried, before I can make up an excuse, or apologize for my absence.

"A mishap with a friend," is what I finally tell him. He looks at me, sensing that I'm making light of whatever's happened, but I don't return his gaze, knowing that, if I let this new knowledge of Holly's condition fully into my mind, now, I won't be able to function. I pick up my script and rifle through it purposelessly, straightening, numbing—for now. "Where were we?"

It takes a great amount of effort to get through the day of work, and only when I get back to my apartment do I start experiencing the shock of what has happened to her. Suddenly everything: my work, my thoughts, my aspirations, my past—everything, expect for Holly and her suffering, is revealed to be trivial. An intense feeling of helplessness takes over my chest one cell at a time, for my realization that she is all the way across the Atlantic and given my rigorous and set-in-stone schedule, I will be incapable of seeing her until after at least a week has passed, if then.

I decide to attempt to calm myself down before calling her, as I promised Alexandra I would. I start to worry whether she will even want to talk to me, whether she will be able to talk at all, if there was possibly trauma to her throat... whether she will have woken up yet in the first place. I mumble to myself, telling myself to get under control; it would be impossible to think it a safe decision to call her when I can't even control my own emotions in this state.

I get into the shower with the goal of scrubbing it all away, but my mind is rampant, and I can only think further about what might have happened to her. I imagine the attack without being able to push it away, in patches of intense speed, color and pain—the image of her hair whipping through the cold New York air as she attempts to flee, snagging on twigs. Her father's large, disgustingly strong hand being clamped down over her mouth... limbs struggling against the mud... and then, a moment of realization, a terrible stillness, the death of hope...

And as these terrible, vivid thoughts arrive in my mind, the water streaming down my arms and back as my hand turns to a trembling fist against the tiles of the shower... I cannot help but wonder whether Holly had been abused by her father as a younger person... as a child...

Understanding promptly that soap and water won't be the salve to this terrible issue, I turn the water off and dry myself with a towel, violently pulling warm clothes over my body and going out into the small cramped kitchen. I think about making myself some tea, and open and close a few cabinets restlessly, but in the end, I cross the kitchen area to the windows looking down onto the street, and sit down at the small table, until I work up the nerve to call.

* * *

**Holly**

It's the early afternoon here and almost eight at night in London when I at last manage to end the call with Benedict. Tears have been streaming down my face nonstop for the duration of the terrible, emotional conversation, and hit a fever pitch of intensity toward the end, when he promised he would do whatever he could, whatever I needed, whenever I needed it. And, truly, I had believed him, and believe him still. My face and head feel stuffy with grief and an overwhelmed heat, and I lift my hands to my eyes to wipe at the tears, there, once I've set my phone down on the hospital bedside table.

I'm surprised that in my current state—a blistering headache, half-high on morphine, with two broken ribs—I had been capable of remembering what had happened to me just this morning in such vivid detail, and had been capable of telling him the truth about what happened to me. Perhaps it is my proximity to the event which allowed me to demonstrate such honesty to him, but I can only hope that I hadn't told him too much, that he won't be too angry, won't be scared away.

In the very least, I had still kept ahold of the even more personal information about the history I have with my father. But the fact that I've withheld that from him so intentionally brings me to the knowledge, now, that I have no excuse anymore not to tell Alex the truth about that part of my life, the first seventeen years that I've kept from her with such hateful diligence since we first met.

She had to leave after a while earlier this morning, to go and take an exam—which I convinced her to leave for. Now, I have to listen to some doctors tell me about my condition, expected recovery time, physical therapy. And I also have to listen to some police officers who tell me about what has happened to do with my father. A hunt has begun already, and they hope to find him soon, but cannot know for sure where he is. In this day and age, it's possible that he could have gotten reasonably far in just the amount of time it's been since he was in Central Park, his last known location, attacking me in the woods. I thank them for their honesty. A nurse with a subdued smile and padding feet brings me a meal which I cannot eat, though I make one attempt.

When the bustle is over and people cease to check on me for a while, I keep myself at peace by imagining Ben, across the ocean, sleeping. I can only hope that he's asleep. I hope that what's happened to me isn't keeping him awake. I have to choose to imagine him asleep, at peace in his bed. If I don't do that much, at least, I know I will dissolve in my panic... I won't be able to remember, and I won't be able to forget. And I'm not ready for either to happen. Not yet.

When three o'clock rolls around, Alex returns. She sees the look on my face and she sits down in a chair at my bedside as though having been struck down physically into her chair. And then, at last, I tell her everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... That was very difficult to write. Hopefully not as difficult to read... I would have gone a lot more into detail with this chapter, but I really couldn't bear to, and felt that I should try to get it up here sooner rather than later. Let me know your thoughts and feelings. Again, if you want to talk about anything in this chapter more sensitively, I am fully prepared to support you.
> 
> The next chapter won't be as much of a drag! Probably back in the present (2020), maybe a little bit of intimacy... I'm not sure yet. I'll try to give us all a little pick-me-up!
> 
> Grateful for you guys!
> 
> :)
> 
> Une-papillon-de-nuit
> 
> 23 July, 2020


	7. Chapter 7: And Now to Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the present, Holly copes with the reality of her past... and learns something exciting about her older self, too. Benedict struggles to reconcile Holly's memory loss with their previous physical intimacy.

**Chapter 7: And Now to Sleep | July, 2020**

**Holly**

His breath catches slightly when my first tear works its way from my eye and traces a path steadily down my face. Over the most recent and most painful part of this story, I've slowly come to gather myself up, and now here I am, curled up on the far end of the loveseat, knees against my chest, arms shaking, pulling my legs closer. I don't want to listen to this anymore, don't want to process what he's telling me—honestly, I know from the incredible pain that weighs heavy upon his voice. I don't want to think about what happened in the woods, to think about how all that hard work I put into putting a distance between myself and my father, into keeping myself safe... How all of that work had so suddenly gone away.

But though my mind protests against this new development in my future / past, I cannot help but understand what has happened, and understand it to be the full truth. I suppose if there's anything to be gained from the lack of my memory, it is the lack of rigid, true sensation which I can recall surrounding the event Ben has just described. While I can piece together other still-existing memories of my father, and guess at what had happened in greater detail, I still cannot see it as a continuous piece in that woods on that February morning—and for that, at least, I am grateful.

It is both frightening and relieving to learn that Alexandra, in the present-day, knows about my past with my father, and that it was I who finally worked up the nerve to tell her. I cannot help recalling some of the vague details and descriptions, now: how my mother had abandoned me with my father before the age of five, leaving on a train that was destined to never return. How frighteningly easy it had been to hide my abuse when I was in school (long baggy sweaters to hide the scars, burns and bruises, getting into detention to avoid going home early), how horrifying it was to see how easily people ignore what they don't want to see—hypocrites. My father and I had many rough patches of homelessness. Those times are the clearest to me: How he used every cent he had to nurse his alcoholism, how we would go without food for days. How he would force me to drink with him and then I would wake from a blackout with new bruises around my wrists, scrapes against my hipbones and a throbbing between my legs. And then—at last—how I had run away one night, simply taken off to my aunt's apartment in New York City, with a train ticket I'd paid for with money stolen from the terrible woman whose floors I swept and mopped every Saturday. I had followed in the footsteps of my mother, but was the less cruel, for now there was nobody but my father to be left behind.

Benedict seems to sense that I am deep in the fold of my own mind, remembering, puzzling, wondering—and he sits still and silent, resolved to offer me space... perhaps a bit too much. But I am grateful for his intentions.

"How was my recovery?" I ask once I'm ready, my voice breaking out of my throat as from chains.

He seems to be knocked out of a stupor of his own, but quickly recovers, and turns toward me, never quite looking at my eyes, whether for my sake or his own, I can't be sure. "Alexandra, I have to say, was a remarkably supportive and good person throughout those next months. You were able to recover physically before the summer arrived, but it... it took much longer for mental and emotional stability to return, at least in part. There were many times when you wouldn't be able to answer my calls, or you would suddenly become silent on the other end of the line. I wanted to see you very badly, see, but our schedules could do nothing but intervene..."

He pauses, and I think for a moment that his emotions might be getting the better of his firm resolve, but when I glance over and see that he's swallowing and touching his throat, I understand how hoarse and tired his voice must feel after talking with such emotion all day long. It's getting on towards dusk outside, the sun has already set, and I know that he must be as physically and mentally exhausted as his voice is, so I reach out a hand and place it on the loveseat cushion just shy of his leg.

"You can stop there," I tell him, when he looks up at me in reaction to my sudden gesture. "We're both tired."

He looks a little guilty all of a sudden, and I think that it might be because of his own voice, but I soon realize that it's because of mine... My tone had been almost completely monotone, a voice robbed of emotion and power over inflection. I can only imagine how devastating it must be for him, recounting that terrible event, having to let me in on something so horrible, which I can't even remember, having to be the one to bring it back into my awareness. I can't blame him for having had doubts earlier about whether or not to lie by omission.

The sadness and exhaustion in his face is too much for me to bear, the way his attractive and open features (which I know are more familiar to me in a more exuberant or content facial expression) have suddenly become so gloomy and devastated—because of me...

I pick myself up joint by joint, limb by limb from the loveseat, knowing that more tears are about to free themselves from my eyes and deciding that I'm not about to be the cause of any more immediate pain on his part. "I'll be right back," I assure him, and give him what I hope is a pacifying look before I swiftly remove myself from the room, hurrying on silent feet into the kitchen before the floodgates break and I begin to silently sob, clutching the corner of the counter.

I allow myself to remain there for a minute, letting the waves of exhaustion and depression wash over and through me, until I have cried as much as possible, and I feel rather drained, but in a pleasant state of numb lethargy.

It's in this state that I lean backwards from the counter, supporting my own weight with my own two legs, and head over to the stove, upon which still sits the tea kettle Ben had used to make ginger tea for me earlier, along with our lunch. I see that the kettle is still full of water and turn the heat on again, thinking of his throat, and knowing by some hidden, forgotten instinct that he would appreciate a cup of tea.

I pass the rapidly passing time looking between my feet, or feeling around my abdomen or ribs through my shirt, but not feeling any pain, legitimate or phantom—but for that slight tingling when my fingertips brush the gunshot wound, the wound I'd received the day Ben and I first met.

When the water is ready, I search through the cupboards for the tea and grab a bag of Prince of Wales—again, on instinct. It's the first one my hand is inclined to, so I trust it, and hope that my instinct is correct. I pour him a cup and let it steep before composing myself, rubbing my tears away and hoping that their saline tracks are not too obvious across my cheeks. I carry the cup back down the hallway and set it in front of him, breaking the trance he'd been lost in while I was gone.

He gives me a surprised look and nods his thanks, taking the cup and taking a cautious sip. "Prince of Wales?" I say to him in a half-question of insecurity.

He manages a slightly gaunt smile, incapable of concealing his utter exhaustion from me, though I know he would like to. "You got it right," he tells me, affirming my instincts. "And you read my mind."

I, too, manage a half-smile, and then turn away, deciding against sitting down. I'm very aware of his eyes following me gently, curiously, as I bend down and sit on my knees to examine the collection of DVDs below the large black screen. Some of them are evidently from his childhood, others I can guess are classics and mutual favorites. There are a few recordings of old plays, and also, some new films which include him in the listed cast, but which I've never seen. These interest me greatly, but I don't want to get into any of them, now. I know that I need to focus on Benedict, the individual, before even beginning to probe the waters of Benedict, the actor.

He continues to watch me sensitively as I stand up and start to look at the bookshelves. His gentle eyes make me aware of my body in a way that isn't entirely unpleasant, but I ignore the sensation, for it makes me slightly nervous, too. The built-in bookshelves lining the walls are home to literally hundreds of books, some of them old, some of them new, some familiar, and some not.

"They're yours," Ben says from behind me, prompting me to look at him, wide-eyed at this face. "Well, mostly yours," he tells me, and my shoulders fall slightly in relief. "I contributed the Shakespeare."

I turn back to the wall full of books, wondering just how behind I am, after changing my major to English, and surely reading more in the past five years I can't remember than I have ever read before. "How many of them do you think I've read?" I ask him, incapable of keeping the stunned tone out of my voice.

He chuckles a bit, taking another sip, sensing my slightly humorous angst. "Almost all of them," he tells me. "Those here at the end—" he points to the far end of the bookshelf nearest the television, which holds perhaps thirty books, totally unrecognizable to me "—are still on your waiting list."

I can't help it—I feel my jaw going lax at this revelation, and I turn slowly to look at him with a sly look to shield how overwhelmed I am. "I have a lot of catching up to do."

He attempts a smile at me, and suddenly, for whatever reason, I feel the possibility of another bout of tears. But only one escapes, and I turn away from him just before it falls, swiping it away so he won't see... though I have a feeling that he can sense these sorts of things, and hiding it is pointless.

After a moment of silence I hear him easing up from the couch and setting his tea down on the table again, and I turn to watch him come to join me at the bookshelf. Again the height and strength of his body strikes me, even more so, now that I've begun to acquaint myself with the feeling of familiarity my body has with his, even if my mind doesn't follow along with it as easily. He comes up alongside me and out of some misguided instinct I step back a little, into the bookshelf, making him look down at me suddenly with a look of intense apology and worry in his eyes. But I quickly shake my head, and his brief expression resolves itself as he reaches up to the top shelf-which I never could have reached, even on my tip-toes—and brings down a medium-sized hardcover.

"My suggestion," he says with his eyebrow slightly raised, and a satisfaction in his deepening voice, "would be this one." And then he holds it down for me to take.

My hands reach out and take it before I've read the cover, but when I do, I almost instantly drop the book onto the floor In my shock. It doesn't matter that the title is unfamiliar, because the author's name is the most familiar name in the world—my own.

"Oh, my God..." I whisper to myself as I turn it over in my hands, flipping through the pages to make sure it's real, reading the inside biography, seeing the publication year of 2018.

"Look on the spine," he says with a glint of mischief in his eyes as he looks down at me, and I do so, turning the book on its side and seeing—with the greatest feeling of surprise and feverish delight—that, on the spine, is a little golden circle-stamp, asserting that the novel I hold in my hands—my novel—won the Pulitzer prize.

And I can't help but smile up at Ben, tilting my head back to look up into his face, genuinely, this time, a smile that feels almost too bright for my face and the big-picture circumstances. But I can't help beaming, and I'm overjoyed to see that part of my ridiculous satisfaction is echoed in Ben's own face, and a bit of happiness seems to reach his eyes.

"This is the only thing I've published, right?" I say, to make sure. "You're not hiding something else from me?"

He chuckles ambiguously and dons a real smile of his own when I look at him a bit feistily. "Well... sometime last year you told me something about making a new foray into playwrighting. But you've kept it very secret. So, unfortunately, you'll have to go digging for that, yourself."

With that, we're struck again by a bit of adrenaline, by the hilarity of this whole situation, the randomness, the underlying humor in our great uncertainty. And we both chuckle a little, our eyes practically sealing up from strain as our cheeks rise in amusement.

"This is terrifying," I confide after a beat, a horrified but slightly excited quaver in my voice.

Soon enough we settle back into our places on the loveseat. He brings in the screenplay he's been marking up from his bedside table, and we quietly settle into our opposite focuses beside each other, no longer plagued by the need to squeeze ourselves onto opposite ends, against the loveseat's arms.

I'm pleasantly surprised as I start to get into the book—my book. The basis of the plot is similar to that of a short story I remember toying with in high school, during my first phase of writing, before my father had burned all my notebooks. I am too afraid to read the reviews, not wanting to get a big head or to get overwhelmed by the fact of the book's existence, popularity and official recognition in the literary world. The whole thing is just too much to wrap my head around at this instant, so I avoid those pages, and instead allow myself to sink into the pages of the story. As I read, it feels as though I am connecting with a lost part of myself. I am connected again to who I have become, even if I cannot remember quite what It feels like to be in her mind. The voice of my narration reaches out to me across the stretches of time and memory, and seems to lay a peace-giving hand over my troubled head, telling me that everything is going to be okay.

Dusk gives way to night discreetly, and it's a bit startling when we're both brought out of our separate creative headspaces, to realize that, outside, it is fully dark. Ben is the first to surface from his mind, setting down his script and pencil, and he lights a candle for me, setting it on the little end table next to me. I grin up at him, incapable of helping it, touched and pleased, seeing that he knows how I love to read by candlelight. He smiles back at me, and bends down from his height to kiss the top of my head, before leaving the room. I look after him for a minute and wait until I hear the shower start in the bathroom—which elicits a little inexplicable smile upon my lips—to return to my reading.

I'm still immersed in the story, but the words are so easy to read, having come right out of my own head, that soon they start to slip and slide across the page, swimming in my tired eyes. And when Ben comes back out of the shower, hair dry and endearingly mussed up atop his head, dressed in striped pajama pants and a light sweatshirt (which fits a bit snugly around the muscles of his arms), I am nearly half-asleep, actually nodding off.

I notice, once I've put the book down, not daring to blow out the candle yet, for the slight anxiety which the thought of us both being in darkness causes me, that he's brought out sheets and pillows for the couch. "Oh, thank you," I say with a mild yawn, not having thought about the sleeping arrangement, but glad that he'd considered it. "Really, you didn't have to do that."

He shakes his head no at me. "I'm the one taking the couch," he says. "You have the bedroom."

Though it's my first instinct to protest, I open my mouth slightly to do so, and he looks at me so pointedly that I shut it again quickly. I know that I should have seen this coming, and know that he will win any argument about anything to do with chivalry. In addition, I don't want to be rude by declining his hospitality, so I agree with a light sigh, standing up from the loveseat, to sleep in the bed.

"Well..." I start, once he's set the loveseat in order for himself—an operation that increasingly worries me, as he's so tall I doubt he'll fit comfortably on it. "Good night."

I stand a bit awkwardly by the doorway, and I can see an internal struggle on his face, over whether or not to approach me, perhaps for a good night embrace. But in the end, the stiffness in my arms must send him the right message, and he smiles warmly from across the room, magically hugging me without a bit of physical contact. "Sleep well," he says, and then blows out the candle with a soft puff of breath.

I go back to the bed and slide in between the sheets and covers, on the side of the bed that I woke up in just this morning—though this morning feels like such a long time ago. I try turning on my side, then on my back, then on my other side, and press away the guilt I have at my conflicted feelings toward Ben. But falling asleep is a task that seems entirely impossible to both my body and my mind, despite my complete exhaustion. In fact, my senses seem to be hyper-aware, as though something is simply not right. At first I think it's likely my mind, stuck in my memories of five years ago, when it would be normal for me to be going to sleep in a different room, in a different city, on a different continent.

But soon, the terrible restlessness within me gives itself a name, and I start to wonder whether Ben is feeling the same way. After all, to be husband and wife (the thought alone sends a chill of unfamiliarity and implication over my skin), and then to suddenly be trying to fall asleep in separate places—with the other person just in the other room, to boot—must be confusing both to our bodies and to our habit-oriented minds. That much, I can guess in my current state of sleeplessness, going off of what I remember from a half-semester of college Psychology.

I go over the thought and the resulting possibilities in my head until I have to take off a layer of blankets. I argue with myself for what could be minutes or hours. But in the end, in the complete darkness of the night, I end up submitting to what my heart tells me is right, and I slowly swing my legs out of the bed, standing up on the cool hardwood floor, and venturing quietly out of the bedroom, toward the sitting room where Ben sleeps—or tries to.

* * *

**Benedict**

A terrible sensation not far from nausea has slowly crept over my body in the hour we've been apart. My body, physically, is tired enough to slip off to sleep in an instant under normal circumstances. But these, I'm truly realizing, are anything but.

I'm so accustomed to being in bed with her... and to suddenly be on the couch is an abrupt change on its own. But the real sensation of wrongness comes from not having her body next to mine, her mind, full of silent, drifting dreams, so magically close.

To keep myself from falling into complete disarray, I console my anxiety by telling myself that she is only one room away, and completely safe—hopefully sleeping soundly after a long day full of emotion. There have been plenty of times—admittedly painful and slightly strained—in our relationship, when we have been far from each other, and have missed out on sleeping together for days or even weeks at a time. So, in reality, this is not something I should be so upset about. I tell myself that surely I'm being selfish for wanting to be next to her. She's still accustoming herself to the fact that we're married, that she's carrying our child, that this is the apartment in which she lives—accustoming herself to everything about this new life. I'm sure she's overwhelmed enough without the presence of my body—which might make her feel obligated to be physical before she is prepared.

So, I tell my longing to seal its lips, and for a time, it works well enough. I've been slipping in and out of consciousness for perhaps another half hour when I sense movement in the doorway, and look over in its direction, seeing my way through the dim residue of light left in the room from a day full of sun and lamps.

"Doing alright?" I ask her, surprised to see her up but then realizing that she must have been sleepless, too. She makes her appearance more clear in the doorway, leaning against the jamb, and I can make out the fragile line of her slender shoulder, her hip, her hand hanging down against her upper thigh, the fingers moving slowly, unsure.

For a moment I actually start to think that she might be sleepwalking, and I'm about to stand up from the loveseat and escort her carefully back into the bed, when she moves slightly again, and I hear her very-much-awake voice coo quietly from across the space between us:

"Come be with me."

It's just above a whisper but I hear it perfectly, my ears perked for any sound, and I cannot suppress the fluttering in my chest that starts up at her words, at the still, observant darkness, at the shape of her, waiting, welcoming me. A strong feeling of affirmation floods outward through my body from my contented heart, and I feel completely warm and full of relief when I stand up slowly from the loveseat and the tangle of useless, lonely sheets, and cross the room to stand by her in the doorway, looking down as she looks up.

With tender courage, her hand brushes against my wrist and then wraps partway around it, and she leads me alongside her into the bedroom.

"Look at this," I say to her, remembering something and feeling slightly invigorated suddenly by the possibility of showing her something new.

Now it's my turn to lead her, and she comes with me willingly, if a bit sluggishly, as I move through the dark towards the curtained window at the far end of the room. With a slight touch of showmanship that makes her chest vibrate lightly with a chuckle, I pull aside the curtain, and a little unintentional gasp comes through her perfect lips.

I join her again, and we both look out over the river, the London night. I watch the lights of the London eye and Parliament reflected in her bright eyes, and smile as we both admire the beams of light reflected in the river. Between us exists a comfortable, silent agreement upon the sight's beauty, and we stand there for a few minutes absorbing the sight, absorbing each other.

Eventually, though I have to let the curtain fall closed again.

"Can't we leave it open?" she says, already partly lost in sleep.

I give her a look through the darkness and shake my head gently, not wanting to disturb her. "Photographers," I explain.

Her face widens into a tired O and then relaxes again. "Seriously?" she says, as though mourning our lack of privacy, trying to be sensitive to something she doesn't remember experiencing. But a light yawn has come into her voice, now, and one of her ankles rolls slightly, sending her body slumping delicately against my side.

She lingers there and we take a second look out the window before I have to close the curtains all the way, and then we escort each other in equal part to the bed, pulling the covers over our bodies, sinking into the mattress and then seeking each other out with gentle probing motions like beetles in the pitch darkness, only our eyes providing sparks of brightness.

For a while, we face each other, and the temptation to slip into sweet blissful unconsciousness is great, but now a new barrier lies between us and sleep: each other.

"Holly?" I hear myself say, very softly after a moment. It seems to me that each syllable, each sound and shape of my mouth must crawl slowly over my pillow and hers before climbing into her ear. her face lightens in acknowledgement of my voice after a moment of sleepy delay, and then soft, warm breath balloons in my chest, and I find myself smiling lightly. "I love you," I tell her. I watch her face become soft, and then, slightly harder. "You don't have to say it back," I assure her.

She shakes her head slightly into the pillow, burying one half of her face and gazing away into the sheets with her other eye. "Holly," I say gently, a hand shifting out of the covers to caress her jaw—carefully, because a part of me fears it may shatter under my fingertips. "I'm going to wait for you to remember. However long it takes."

Again, she shakes her head slightly, and the threat of sleep is cast off from us both for a few minutes, allowing for words to come more easily. "What if I don't ever remember?" she worries aloud, and I think I see a bead of moisture form at the corner of her eye, though it doesn't fall. "What if I just... stay... stuck, five years behind?"

The prospect sends a jolt of pain through my body—the prospect of her never being capable of remembering our beginnings on her own is more hurtful to me than any physical pain could ever be. But I manage to put a warming pressure on her jaw with my thumb, and to brush away a just-fallen tear. "Then," I tell her, "we'll learn each other all over again. And I will love and cherish you all the same."

This vow, which I knew I had within me, but am pleasantly surprised to hear expressed in words, and at such a time of night, elicits a few more tears from her eyes. I am drawn toward her, brushing them away with my fingers, with tentative lips, and then, without further warning or deliberate, conscious intention, our mouths have met.

The sharp and sweet sensation of home overcomes me; for a precious moment, I feel almost tearful, touching her mouth with mine, catching her shortened breath in the warm cavern of my mouth. We're still for a moment, music filling my heart, until her lips, very subtly, carefully, risk moving against my own, tentatively. For a moment, our mouths move quietly, testing, probing... and then something different begins to override the simplicity of this discovery; a pressure from within and without, a mounting warmth which is both thrilling and worrisome in its inherent risk. For her lips are still the same lips which I have become so well versed in—but there isn't the same experience she's built up behind them over years being with me. An almost miserable pulse of heat reigns in my lower body, and the feeling of her breath speeding up, brushing across my skin pries a groan from my throat, which ripples into her mouth.

I'm met with no resistance, but I note the slight tensing of her body as my arm instinctively ensnares her waist beneath the curtains, bringing her painfully close to me. The part of my mind which exists in a cooler place beyond the proximity of our bodies doesn't want to scare her, or let things intensify beyond the point of control. But my body is being invaded gradually by a biting urge to hover over her, to move on top of her and touch her more deeply, taste her, remind her of everything... of anything...

But then her jaw becomes taut, and her small hips, flush to mine, grow suddenly stiff, on edge. So, my body praying for me to continue, but my mind knowing that this will be my last chance out, I pry my lips from hers feverishly, and separate my body from hers again. I feel her breath on my face and desire all too deeply to take her lips again, but I know I must stop, lest I become drawn further into my desire.

She looks at me from centimeters away, which feel like leagues suddenly, and I can feel the movements of her body echo throughout the bed; a slight hint of relief in the relaxation of her form when she realizes it's over... but, accompanying it, a slumping manner which hints at a slight confused disappointment.

With further caution I pull myself from her completely, as though parts of me might peel away if I'm not slow enough. And then we look at each other with carefully measured caution and curiosity, drugged by the inevitability of oncoming sleep, the bed threatening to pull us under.

Tentatively, holding my gaze bravely, she curls her arms into her chest, and I mirror her, suppressing the ache of my longing as I feel the sheets shift, her legs pulling themselves up towards her chest. She tucks herself in closer to me, her head dipping down into the pillow. We give each other mildly apologetic looks, but then, slowly, our faces soften once more, and we're left with the exhausted, pleasant expressions of children after a long summer day of playing in golden sunlight. Carefully I lay my arm over her waist, and she accepts me, drawing herself closer to my chest and then becoming heavier with the weight of sleep.

Her eyes are the first to droop and slip closed, and mine follow shortly after.

* * *

In the morning there's an acute sense between us of having become closer in heart and mind after sleeping next to each other. Her subconscious, when she first opens her eyes, gives off the sense of being further acquainted with me, and her body relaxes against mine, a new mutual comfortability taking hold. In the first instant, it's as though we're waking up in a completely new morning, in which none of the chance and trauma of yesterday has taken place; in a morning where she remembers everything. But soon the illusion fades. Once we've blinked the initial sleep away, still frightened to move away from each other, there's a feeling of blind hope in my heart, and I look at her with meaning, hoping against all sense that, just maybe, something, anything has come back to her overnight. But her face falls slightly as she looks into my eyes and I know that the answer is a very definite—though reluctant—no.

After watching each other carefully for a few minutes, the light of early morning creeping around the edges of the curtains and from the other windows in the other rooms of the apartment down the hallway, we pull ourselves up from the bed and stand. I watch her stretch when she stands, a gentle swaying of her torso from side to side, hands clasped above her head, and she turns to me upon feeling my gaze, a light smile grazing her lips.

We go together to the kitchen, and I set about preparing a light breakfast for us while she sits down at the island and becomes absorbed again in the book she wrote. There's no conversation between us, but I quickly sense a change in her after a few minutes, and look over my shoulder to see her having set the book aside, looking mildly pale, staring at one spot on the countertop.

"Are you nauseous?" I ask, abandoning the meal for a minute, going to her and placing my hand over her own.

She looks up at me with a slight nervousness in her eyes, a vague self-consciousness taking her face over as she slowly realizes that the source of her ill feeling is morning sickness. "Has this been happening lately?" she asks me, looking up again for assurance, and I nod my head to the affirmative.

"It will probably pass, but you should be careful." There had been a morning three days ago when she'd thought it was a false alarm and had just barely made it to the bathroom on time, and I would hate for her to feel pressured into staying out of an imagined sense of obligation or awkwardness.

She looks at the countertop again, breathing slowly, but then her face drains even more of its color, and she nods her head to herself, sliding cautiously off her stool and holding her stomach unpleasantly. "Yeah..." she says, partly to me, but more to herself. "I'm gonna... sorry. Right back."

She heads down the hallway slowly and I look after her. "Do you need me?"

"I'll be okay," she says, lifting a hand to her side as she starts into the bedroom. "I'll be okay... Just in case. I'm fine, alone."

I hear the bathroom door close and run my hands through my sleep-mussed hair before forcing myself to return to the task at hand. I worry a little, though, still, keeping both ears pricked so that I'll be prepared to hurry to her if she actually gets sick.

But it's safely quiet from down the hall, and after a few minutes she comes back to the kitchen, confirming with an awkward little nod and a shrug that it had been, indeed a false alarm.

As an extra precaution, I've fixed her more of her ginger tea, and she sips on it gratefully while I join her, and we eat together quietly. At the end of ten minutes, she looks up at me and says, "Thank you," with a small shake of her head, as though she's delivered the wrong line, or the right line in the wrong place.

"Of course," I say, through the slightly odd silence.

Together we put away breakfast and the dishes, and I let her use the bathroom first, showing her where her clothes are in the bedroom. While she showers, I go into our sitting room and pick up the remains of my makeshift bed from the loveseat, folding the sheets and returning them to the linen cabinet. After, I find myself failing to find a solitary comfort or to make myself useful, pacing along the hallway until she's come out, dressed in the closest thing she owns to what I always saw her in five years ago: a pair of yoga pants and an airy, loose-fitting tee. She looks at me a little bashfully, her damp hair tied up in a loose, carefree bun on the top of her head, and I move past her quietly with a light smile on my own way to the bathroom.

I take a short shower and pay little mind to my hair, putting on a pair of comfortable trousers and a loose shirt that nearly matches her own—which I only realize when I'm confronted with her upon coming out of the bedroom and entering into the kitchen, where she's waiting for me, standing with her back pressed to the edge of the island counter.

I think I read something in her eyes, something that reflects last night's intimacy, but I cannot be completely or safely sure—for I have been thinking about it too much, myself, to be sure it's not only my own desire I see reflected in her eyes.

But sure enough, after we've looked at each other for a moment, considering one another's faces, the new experiences and old stories attached to them, she reaches out a hand, not quite horizontally, and I go to her carefully, feeling like water in her presence.

Tentatively, once I've come near enough to her, she draws me closer, and tilts her head up, laying her chin against my chest and then leaning back again to test her hands on the back of my neck. Still questioning, I lean down a bit to accommodate her, the subject of our tension in my eyes. She nods her head slightly, and gets up on her tip-toes to bring her mouth to mine again, so slowly, sweetly, in a raw and unpracticed way that sends me suddenly upside-down in my mind, stars spiraling as my eyes slip blissfully closed.

That low place in my abdomen becomes slightly riled as it had last night, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I want her... My mind shows me all the things I could do: how easy it would be to lift her onto the counter, to carry her to the bed, or to stay right here, In this embrace, until the end of days. I can feel it in her mouth and in the way her hips curve towards mine of their own volition that she wants me, too—or at least her body does. I know how to take her to the moon with my body, it would be so simple to bring her out, to let her blossom under my hands and lips...

But no.

Despite our growing languidness, there's still a stiffness to her body that isn't prepared, and we both know it would be daft to throw our bodies into one another now, while our hearts are still working to reestablish the foundations of our relationship.

This time, in a cruel but fair act of existence, she is the first to draw away, her lower lip tucked into her mouth slightly, perhaps between her teeth, a red flush across her face. I press my body forward, testing, and she looks up with an admirable steadiness at my face, though she's pressed against the counter, stuck holding my hands. I know how much effort this could be taking for her, and I suddenly draw myself away, giving her ample space through which to escape in case I've imposed upon her sense of safety. I cannot help the smile of contentment that climbs onto my lips when she chooses to remain, holding my hands tighter.

"I think," she says, once breath has returned to us, "I should give Alex a call."

I nod my head in the affirmative, efficiently distracted from what's just passed, as I reason that I should, in the same respect, call my parents, to inform them about what's happened. I retrieve my phone from the desk in the room we've set up for online meetings over the past months, and am about to dial my parents' number when Holly appears at the door, holding her own phone, a sheepish expression on her face.

"I, uhm..." she says, holding it up with a look of helplessness on her face that makes me smirk a bit. "I can't remember my password."

"Watch this-" I start, crossing the room in a few strides and standing beside her, holding her phone up so the lens is trained upon her face and showing her the face identification function which she's been using since she got the update. As the phone opens without any effort at all, her face pops in surprise and she looks at me with a shocked chuckle, stuttering a little before shaking her head and putting her palm to her forehead.

"Thanks," she says, at a loss for any other words, and she sneaks back around the corner. From the other room I hear her starting to talk with Alex, and only then do I start my own call.

It's difficult telling them what's happened; a fear of theirs has always been dementia and other forms of memory loss—for one of them to tragically, slowly, forget the other in old age. But now it seems to pain them even more greatly than imaginable, to see myself, their son, suffering from just that, with my own partner, and at such a young age, under such unlikely circumstances. I assure them the best I can that we're working things out, however slowly, and that Holly has shown herself to be comfortable with me, and not too afraid. After a few lingering questions from them both, and specific, warm encouragements, I hang up, and go into the other room, where Holly has just finished a call with Alex, and looks vaguely concerned but also alleviated of much stress, as though simply hearing another voice from the past—one which she truly remembers—has strengthened her faith in me.

We sit down again on the loveseat, making a ritual of it, we joke, and it's more comfortable, today; our bodies growing subconsciously closer and closer.

"That summer," I say, watching as she listens attentively, "you wanted to get out of New York for safety's sake, as they still hadn't found your father. Alex was staying in your dorm through the summer. One of your literature professors had tipped off a publishing house here in London about a certain star pupil—" at this she reddens slightly but can't help smiling a little at me "—and you were offered a paid internship. You called me, elated as soon as you found out, and I offered to let you stay in my apartment's guest room— I lived in a different one at the time, the top floor of a building in Bayswater."

She nods her head up and down at me, though we both know she's only being courteous; reacquainting herself with the geography of London is going to be a trying task, when the time comes. We both smile a little, an excited, roiling nervousness filling our chests—but with it, a true, pure happiness, for we know that, whatever comes, we will surmount every obstacle side by side.

I grin at her again and she scoots closer to me, almost hip to hip when she puts her hand in mine and squeezes it. I squeeze it back, looking into her face, all the memories flooding back to me in a wave of joy.

"You came in early May..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am in love with this story, you guys. I was grinning like a fool just writing this chapter!
> 
> Your views and encouragement keep me champing at the bit to get to the keyboard every single day without fail... Thank you beyond words for your awesomeness, and I am so, so glad to be hearing from some of you about your feelings! Keep it up! I'm loving it!
> 
> Thanks a million,
> 
> Une-papillon-de-nuit
> 
> 24 July, 2020


	8. Chapter 8: Doubt Thou the Stars are Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holly arrives in London for the Summer...

**Chapter 8: Doubt Thou the Stars are Fire | May, 2015**

**Holly**

I reach his address in Bayswater an hour after we'd planned, since my flight was delayed at JFK, but made no less excited by the jetlag. I'd gotten one of London's famous black cabs from the airport, here, and had reveled throughout the whole ride in the class of the driver, and the fact that I have finally landed on soil outside of the United States for the first time in my life. There's a vague, pleasant smell of fresh grass and cool rain which is unique to London, and makes my spirit swell with excitement at this newness. By the time I've arrived on the front steps of Ben's building and rung the bell (despite the ache from the internal bruising in my still-healing ribs and the jetlagged feeling that I've just been in a time machine), I'm totally elated.

I cannot help but grin widely when I hear him quickly descending stairs beyond the door at the sound of the doorbell, his steps hurried and close together, almost stumbling, like those of a very exuberant young child upon the arrival of a long-awaited friend.

When the door opens, it all happens so quickly that it's not until I'm already inside the foyer with the door shut quickly that I realized he's pulled me quite abruptly inside, perhaps for the sake of privacy. But once I get my wits about me again, seconds later, I get the chance to look around the entryway, a beautiful, simple, old-fashioned place, with heavy stairs leading up the side to the rooms above. But better than the immediate intrigue and hominess of the building itself, is the sight of Benedict in front of me, beaming from ear to ear, eyes sparkling in the light from outside and the fixture high overhead.

"How are you!" he exclaims in the merriest voice, and draws me into an embrace—tentative at first, but slightly too tight.

I can't help but wince and inhale sharply against his chest, and he suddenly steps back, eyes studying my face with intensity. "I'm totally fine-" I tell him before he can ask. "Just some internal bruising, or something, with the ribs, that isn't totally healed yet. But the pain subsides quickly." And even as I tell him this, the pain does subside, and I smile at him brightly, embracing him again, more lightly and grinning as he chuckles and his chest hums deeply against my cheek.

"It is... great to see you," I tell him, once I've pulled away, not wanting to linger too long in his arms, for the sake of propriety... though there is a certain warm quality to his body that makes me feel extremely comfortable and safe... though I'm not quite sure what to make of that, yet. Regardless, I'm extremely grateful that we're able to so suddenly slip into a comfortable, casual physicality.

He grins back at me, looking down from his height, taller than I remembered him in my mind, his eyes remarkably bright as he says, "You, too!" his deep voice lightened by the excitement at finally seeing one another face to face. "Here, let me take your luggage."

And I can't protest as he takes my small suitcase in hand and we start up the giant stairs together, smiling and laughing and shaking our heads at how glad we are, the whole way. "I can't even express how grateful I am for this," I tell him, as we continue to ascend the stairs towards the top floor, which is his. "For you to invite me into your home... it's very special, and I feel quite honored."

"Oh, I won't hear of it," he laughs back. "Your company is a pleasure, and I thought, why would you stay in a Hotel when I have a guest room, so close to your internship?"

"Well," I say, feeling a bit of heat across my face both from the climb—keeping up with him is not the easiest thing in the world, as I'm much shorter in stature and he's much more used to these stairs—and from the particular way he smiles at me, so full of acceptance and friendliness. "It's extremely kind of you, and I'm grateful for your hospitality."

A few seconds later, once we've gotten to the top floor, we stop in front of a door left slightly ajar, and he swings it around for me with a humble, "Here we are," as he carries my suitcase into the apartment.

But all I can do is stand in the doorway and stare.

The apartment is unbelievably large and spacious, open with every aspect used very cleverly, so that it, on the whole, is the most comfortable place I've ever set foot in. I have to remind myself for a moment that Ben can afford all of this, in such a beautiful area of London. In the corner of the main room there's a piano, with a violin resting atop it, a bookshelf stacked with plays and a few novels. A radio sits on a giant windowsill that I could practically use for a seat, and calm classical music streams from its speakers quietly. The apartment itself is old fashioned, with wooden floors, cool, modern furniture and beautiful tall windows open to the summer breeze: the perfume of flowers from the nearby park wafting through the air dreamily. Natural light reminding me that it's late morning, here, streams in through the windows. All of this I can see just from the main entrance room, and I can tell from two branching hallways that there are many, many more rooms to explore, and I have only seen the tip of the iceberg with this impressive home.

"Oh, my word..." I say, incapable of holding back the sigh that comes straight from my chest at the sight.

Ben chuckles in humility when I speak, and turns around after assuring me that it's "just home," beckoning me to follow him down one of the hallways, into the rest of the apartment.

He treats me to a tour of the whole apartment, showing me the linen closet, bathrooms, a series of recreational rooms for reading, film-viewing and the like. He tells me multiple times that I am welcome anywhere in the apartment, points out his own bedroom door in case I ever need him, makes sure I know I'm welcome to the kitchen. He's about to show me to my guest room when suddenly his eyes glance up at an analog clock hanging on the wall behind me, and a look of such sudden realization comes into his eyes that I have to turn around and check to see what he's looking at.

"Shit..." he mutters to himself as I turn back to him. "Look, I thought we'd have a little more time, but after the delay... I've really got to run. I'm on the verge of running late to a meeting."

"Oh," I say, making sure to let him know through my tone that I'm not upset, "With whom, may I ask?"

"Well..." he starts, rocking back on his heels and looking at me a little bashfully. "I neglected to tell you until now, but..."

He looks up at me, delaying, and I urge him onwards by raising my eyebrows and smiling. There's something I adore about the way his mouth turns upwards at the corners, the jolly sparkle in his eyes. "What is it, Ben?" I say with a half-suppressed laugh at the mischievous look in his eyes.

At length he inhales and then says, with his eyes closed in mock apprehension: "There's a performance of Hamlet at the National Theatre in a month and I've been cast!"

When he tells me, he lets it out all in one very rapid breath, so that I have to retrace his words before my face drops open into a wide grin of surprise. He knows from our phone conversations that I adore Shakespeare, and that Hamlet is in my top three favorites of his plays. "Oh, my God!" I say, having to exert a great amount of effort to keep from jumping up and down. "You're Hamlet?!" I slap him playfully on the arm and he raises his hands in mock surrender as I, laughing and feeling suddenly childlike and free, continue my verbal assault: "How dare you keep this from me! Ben, I am so, so excited for you! But don't let me keep you, please, please go-"

He shakes his head a little at my extreme exuberance, and says, "I'll be meeting with the director Lyndsey Turner and Sian Brooke, our Ophelia. We're having tea someplace... Here..."

We start back through the hallway and get to the entryway, where he takes a key from a peg by the door. "I got this made for you. You'll have until the afternoon to acquaint yourself with the apartment, but I do have to ask you to stay inside. Just for safety's sake."

A little surprised by this, and just a tiny bit apprehensive, I say, in a joking way to shield it, "Do the paparazzi have your place staked out?"

"Not yet, thankfully," he says with another of his low chuckles. "I've been keeping a very careful, low profile. But you can imagine the trouble we'd both be in if someone happens to have already found me out, and gets a picture of a strange young woman coming out the front door."

I nod my head, feeling my face drain slightly of blood as I imagine just that; I hadn't thought about the fact of his being famous at all, really—he just seems so normal and easy-going in the day to day—and suddenly being faced with it is a little overwhelming, especially in such a context.

He spots the time again on another clock and looks at me with apology in his eyes, but also sincerity. "I've really got to get going—we'll talk more in a while. I should be back around two. Look, I'm really, really sorry for leaving you so suddenly—you'll be alright?"

"Are you kidding me?" I say to him brightly, ecstatic, motioning around at the apartment to elaborate on my point. "I'm going to be great. Now, go, before you're late! Go do your badass job!"

At this he gives a full laugh, and I wave him goodbye as he goes out the door and promises to call as soon as he's on his way back. I stare at the door for a moment after he's left, and I chuckle to myself, muttering, "Prince of fucking Denmark," in excited disbelief.

"I heard that!" he calls from down the hall, and I smile at his laughter, and listen with a stupid grin on my face, to the sound of his feet pattering down the stairs and the door to the street opening and closing.

* * *

I set myself up in the beautiful, spacious guest room—Ben has clearly put new sheets and blankets on the bed for me, and brought in a desk for my work—and I almost lay down on the extremely comfortable queen sized bed (the biggest bed I've ever had the opportunity to sleep in in all my life). But I have to force myself to keep from falling asleep, reminding myself of the time, here, and intent on getting into the flow of the new time zone.

There's a bathroom connected directly and personally to the room, and I strip myself of my airplane clothes, and take a shower to wake myself up again. It's an absolute joy to be showering in an actual bathroom, with actual settings on the shower head, and nice soaps and shampoos—none of them scented too strongly, though one smells mildly of lilies, for which I'm grateful. I'm relaxed and happy to wash off in a place with a real sense of cleanliness and privacy, which I hadn't gotten in the dorm showers back in New York. Everything about Ben's place, in fact, is nicer than any other place I've ever lived or stayed in before.

After showering, wrapped up in a cloud-like towel and sitting in a comfortable, ergonomic work chair by the little desk, on which I've sat my laptop and some books by the Benedict-provided lamp, I call Alex excitedly. It's around five in the evening in New York, but the usual early-onset exhaustion that plagues my friend during the school year is gone from her now, in the summer, and she speaks with overwhelming enthusiasm, getting me to tell her everything—though I'm so excited, myself, that it doesn't take a whole lot of effort on her part. I sense that she's just slightly jealous of me... okay, extremely, absolutely, completely jealous of me... but she's been sworn to secrecy about this whole thing by both myself and Benedict, and though she's been fangirling slightly about this new stage in our relationship (friendship, I have to keep reminding her, rather strictly), I trust her not to talk.

After talking for almost thirty minutes straight and feeling a bit hoarse, I hang up, leaving Alex to go out to dinner with her group of extraverted friends who are staying in New York for the summer along with her.

Once I've ended the call, I get my first chance at real freedom and peace. I'm elated to be finally away from the United States for the first time in my life—I would really love to go exploring London, but I want to honor Ben's wishes, and common sense also tells me I should wait until I have a partner in crime before going out and doing anything. Carefully, I open the window a crack, and breathe in the London air, excited and inspired.

For hours, I sit in front of my laptop and write, a new story streaming out of my fingertips in a torrent of excitement and frenzy, that leaves me completely exhausted when I'm recalled to reality. It's around six o'clock when Benedict messages me, saying he's sorry that the meeting lasted so much longer than he thought it would, and asking me if I'd like him to bring home some Chinese.

After a quick text conversation, I'm jolted effectively out of my writing frenzy. I'd been barely conscious of what I was writing as I was writing it, and I'm sure that half of it at least is pure nonsense, but I'm glad to have gotten it out of my system all the same. Suddenly I'm reminded that I'm still in the bath towel, and I go into the bathroom (sure to avoid looking at myself in the mirror, not wanting to be faced with what I already know is there, the scar from the gunshot wound, the blossomed bruises still lingering across my side), and dress in a fresh pair of clothes: some loose, comfortable sweatpants and a long sleeved shirt. It's almost pajama-like, especially with my natural messy bun, but, hey, I'm practically on vacation.

I worry a little bit once half an hour has passed and Ben still hasn't arrived back, but I busy myself by locating a drawer of placemats and such, and then by setting the table for us—and in no time, he's coming in the door at seven o'clock, announcing that he's back in a tone that tells me he's tired out, but in the best way, by talking about what he's passionate about. When he makes it into the kitchen he remarks on what I did, and once we get over some awkward niceties which I'm sure will smooth out into a comfortable regularity as we get more used to each other's company, we sit down to eat.

We settle into a comfortable line of conversation, discussing how we plan to keep our arrangement secret. I let him know that I've been thinking of starting to jog again, and he gives me a few good, safe places I can go, also offering to help me navigate public transportation, though he strongly advises taking cabs to and from the publishing house, since they're the safest, and most reliable.

After we've eaten and put the food and dishes away together, working easily as a team, we move into the other parts of the apartment, and I interrogate him gently about his thoughts on Hamlet—which he is very willing to discuss. I ask him if he actually knows how to play the violin, and he impresses me with a couple of tunes. By the early night, when the sun has set and dusk is fading to a more solid black in the sky outside the tall windows, we're playing duets together, me, exercising my memory and straining to read some sheet music on the piano with acceptable accuracy.

Before too long, though, we're both yawning slightly at the late hour, and with a mild nod of acknowledgement, we depart from each other for the night, going off into our separate rooms. From down the hall, lying in the immensely comfortable bed, I hear the sound of the shower in Ben's room starting, and the sound of the droplets hitting the tub send me off quickly into a very deep sleep.

* * *

But I wake up at some point in the middle of the night to the feeling of a hand on my shoulder, and a lingering feeling of sheer panic that makes me jolt up at the touch, breathing fast, the shadowy room cast in a dark red lens of fear. It's not until I've buried my face in my hands and groped around the unfamiliar bedside table and flicked the switch on a lamp that I realize the owner of the hand I'd felt had not been a phantom lingering from a nightmare, but Benedict himself. And in the next moment I realize, with a wave of regret that—momentarily—overpowers the terror of the nightmare I've just been woken from: that, in my initial panic of wakefulness, I must have accidentally hit him.

For a moment, in the wake of the nightmare, in which my father had featured, I'm close to believing that he might suddenly strike back in retaliation, hitting me back, harder, and I remain on my bed, half-cowering instinctively. But then I remember just who it is who's standing nearby me, and I feel a further embarrassment from my thoughts and feelings. I have to work through it, though, his quiet stillness registering and snapping me back into the present and the situation at hand.

"Oh, shit..." I say, half to myself, and push myself up out of the bed, going to him where he stands a few steps away, eyes wide in surprise, pinching the bridge of his nose, eyebrows furrowed in a suppressed pain. "Oh, my God, I'm so sorry," I say to him, covering my mouth and—instinctively—reaching up a tentative hand, before letting it fall, realizing it would be counterproductive to touch him.

"No," he says, putting a hand out and scrunching up his nose before letting his hand fall. "Really, I'm okay, you just grazed me a little. Were you... you're the one who needs to be asked if they're alright."

I shake my head slightly, trying to put a finger on what had happened during my sleep; the disorienting effect of the fact that I was in a dream, not in reality, sends me reeling, and makes my knees literally buckle, so that Ben has to reach out and wrap a stabilizing arm around my shoulders to keep me from falling. And then, embarrassed beyond belief, I realize that I've started to cry—not in a way that's too ugly, thank the powers that be, but crying nonetheless. And I hate that I've had a bad dream, hit someone I care about so much, who had only been trying to help.

He's perfectly tolerant, however, and after coaxing my legs back to strength with a few helpful adjustments and vague, wordless sounds from his mouth that somehow communicate a sense of safety and trust to me—he helps me to walk down the hall and into the kitchen area, where he turns on the light to its low setting and sits me down at the table.

I place my hands on the dark table, spidery and looking almost bloodless in the night, and I look at a clock vaguely, seeing that it's somewhere between midnight and one in the morning—the witching hour, fittingly. After a few moments I finally force my tears to subside but as soon as they've left a terrible shaking takes their place, and that, I can't suppress in time.

Ben brings me a glass of water—not too warm, but not so cold that it makes me choke up further—and sits across from me, scooting his chair to be a little closer to me, but still far enough to give me space. He looks at me with severe worry in his eyes, though he tries to mask it with a friendly, unpresuming support that, in itself, almost makes me want to cry again, just from his sheer goodness.

"I can't even believe myself right now," I say, once I've collected myself and worked up enough confidence in my voice to speak. "I can't believe I woke you up. I can't believe I... Jesus. I'm sorry I hit you." I have to avoid his powerful eyes, not wanting to cry from his gentleness, or to get stuck looking at him, when I'm so afraid that my own eyes might reveal too much.

Through all of this he manages to chuckle—a slight darkness to the tone of his voice, but still, a redemptive comfort to the sound of his voice and breath resonating in his chest. "Well," he says, to my words, "It wasn't your fault—it wasn't deliberate. Holly... I'm not mad at you."

This punches a significant hole in the dam of my self-control and I let out a few tears at his outstanding kindness before restraining myself again with much difficulty. "Did I... did I say anything?" I manage to ask, incapable of holding my curiosity any longer.

"No distinct words, just, some mumblings, and a shout."

I rest my forehead on my hand and breathe deeply, trying to piece together the vague, terrible images which came to me in the night, but also trying to vanquish them at the same time. But I can't stop remembering that...

"Do you want to talk about it?" Ben says, breaking through my rambling subconscious, allowing me to focus all of myself on this one moment, on his words, on the space between the two of us in this dimly-lit kitchen.

"It was something..." I start, "something about my father. I can't remember any specifics, just..." I break off again, remembering the distinct feeling of his hand pressing into my face, then into my shoulder—and the way that waking to the feeling of Ben's own hand on my shoulder had prompted me to fling my arm out in self-defense. Something about this jars me to no end, and I have to stop, knowing that tonight is not the night to revisit this. I shake my head in Ben's direction, not mustering a smile, for I know he doesn't expect me to.

"Really," I say, breaking the few seconds of silence which seem much longer, lengthened especially by the heaviness of the night and of my hot, lingering tears. "You've done more than enough. You don't have to listen to this; I don't even know what I'm saying... I'll be okay. We should both get some sleep." I feel quite awkward for a few seconds afterwards, wondering, briefly, whether any words had actually come out of my mouth, or whether I'd just been so nervous and insecure that I only imagined myself to be speaking.

But then Ben stands up with an acknowledging nod of my wishes, and offers a hand to help me stand up, as well. I take it weakly, trembling a little and then half-walking, half-stumbling willingly into his arms, embracing him loosely, not letting myself collapse again. Tenderly, he returns the gesture, placing his hands cautiously on my back and then letting go after a few moments have passed.

"Thank you," I say to him, when we've stopped outside my guest room. He nods through the darkness to me, a pulsing loyalty in his eyes reaching out to comfort my heart though he doesn't try to touch me. Then I turn back into the room and close the door very quietly, hearing him do the same down the hall.

It's a long time, despite the warmth and comfort of the deep, soft bed, before I can finally fall back to sleep—for I'm caught up in my confusion, the fear and phantom pain that my dream brought back to me after being so long suppressed. And, in addition, the strange confusion that takes over me when I think of how immediately supportive, tolerant, and understanding Benedict had been, despite the circumstances. Those accepting eyes seem to stare at me from inside my own mind, and thus it is nearly morning already when I actually go back to sleep.

* * *

Over the next days things get only progressively better from that night onward, and after a few days, the troubling darkness of the dream has been forgotten entirely in the warmth and brightness of the days that keep me in comfort even as I sleep through the nights.

I start running again, and my body and mind feel much better very quickly after going on some of the routes Benedict suggests to me. Every day I call Alex and tell her about what's been going on in London, and she tells me about a development back in New York to do with a boy she's very interested in, and who seems to be interested in her, too.

The internship goes extremely well, and I've been in contact with the professor who recommended me in the first place, expressing my deep gratitude for the experience and opportunity. I'm making surprisingly good money from it, too—and am actually placing it in a savings account, which I've never been able to do before, as I've always had to work to earn my keep and to pay for food, both with my father and, later my aunt. Now, I no longer have to survive paycheck to paycheck, and the other opportunities springing from the internship itself are extremely numerous.

Ben absolutely insists that I don't pay him anything. He's overjoyed, he tells me repeatedly, to have my company, wants me to be here, and doesn't need me to give him anything for it. He also makes the point (reluctantly, to end the argument) that I don't have as much money as he does—he can support me with ease, and is happy to do so, in exchange only for my good and "long-overdue" company.

It's a thrill to be getting paid for work I am actually challenged and enriched by. My job entails writing short blurbs for book, formatting manuscripts, reading submissions and writing reports to give official previewers an initial summary and opinion (the part of the job that is the most stressful to me, as aspiring authors' dreams depend on it). I'm given some duller tasks, too, such as reorganizing files, but this is expected, and I am more than willing to do anything I can to keep the cogs of the place oiled, feeling like I have a true sense of responsibility and value as a part of a team. After a few weeks, my bosses have become impressed with me, and I am allowed the honor of assisting one of the actual editors in editing a full manuscript: I spend hours working on it every evening at the apartment, Ben sometimes looking over my shoulder and conversing lightly with me, when he's not at rehearsals, or studying on his own.

I am the only summer intern at the publishing house, as they are extremely selective, but I keep my humility about me as I always have. It's a great time, not having to be outlandishly social with my older coworkers, being offered the luxury of hunkering down to a more private type of work, learning all I can. Being a developing professional in such an environment is a relief after a year of University, a welcome change of pace. With the men and women I work with every day, I have been starting to get back to a place of trust, which gives me an ability to walk around with much more security in myself than I have in a very long time—perhaps in my whole life.

Both Benedict and myself are in our absolute happiness zones, living out the best versions of ourselves, so it is with remarkable ease that we interact with each other, approaching each new day of work and leisure with a childlike brightness that I want to last forever.

I'm extremely impressed by his personal practicing, the way he runs over and over his lines, sometimes muttering, sometimes silent, sometimes aloud—until I convince him to join me in the main room, so that I might hear him working his genius. It's a joy to watch and hear him work through the literature of it; we have deep, satisfying conversations about Shakespeare's intentions and their repercussions in the modern day. More and more often as the month progresses, he gives private performances of various monologues, soliloquies, and other lines for me. Often, citing my credibility and trustworthiness as a literature major, he asks my opinion, or even for my help in choosing between interpretations, between versions, until he fleshes each phrase out to perfection. On the whole, it's a stunning and majestic process to behold, and I cannot help but feel a little giddy sometimes when I watch him, sure that I am hearing these centuries-old lines delivered as they were always intended to be.

In addition to our playful, joyful ways of working together, we also manage to make some mischief. One of our favorite things to do together has quickly become going out on walks at dusk, in less populated parts of the city, on more private streets and in parks, to keep from being seen, but always, just slightly, tempting fate.

When the month of August is about to begin, and with it, Ben's long-awaited performances, I'm on a phone call with Alex, and she brooches an unexpected subject.

"So..." she says, her voice still a little high-pitched after telling me about an exciting date she'd just been on with the boy she'd met at the beginning of May. "What exactly is going on between you and Benedict?"

It takes me a few minutes to really grasp what she's implying, and I have to say "What?" a few times, before she finally gets to the point.

"I mean," she says, speaking lowly, "he offered you the guest room inside his actual apartment, Holly. He must like you."

"I don't-" I start with a slight chuckle at the unexpected topic. But then I realize that I can't truly continue, knowing for sure that I have faith in what I'm talking about... For it's true that over our time together, I've started to wonder whether I feel something between Ben and myself that counts as more than friendship. But I can never be quite sure with him, who just seems so happy and full of energy all the time, and not only because of me. I wonder if it's only Alex being too hopeful, or if the problem is on my end—me, who has no idea how nonviolent attraction works, me, who has never had a boyfriend, not even one of those two-second, third grade playground boyfriends.

After that phone call I try to put Alex's words out of my mind, and their implications, but after having it all laid out before me like that, and after looking into the slight doubt of my own mind regarding the state of my relationship with Ben—a subtle stirring of feelings I can't quite understand or trust—I can't quite go back to the innocent of friendship we'd existed in before.

And though nothing is changed in the way I approach him from the day to day, or in the way he, in turn, approaches me, I can't help but wonder...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How's everyone doing?! Sorry that there wasn't any Benedict POV in this chapter... Next chapter will DEFINITELY make up for that. And also, sorry for the slight delay! I usually get these chapters up in the very early morning, and stay up through the night to get them written, but last night I just absolutely crashed, so I wasn't able to get to the keyboard until this evening. Hope I didn't let you down too badly!
> 
> Glad that you guys are still coming back! More excitement coming up soon—next chapter will be a big improvement from this one, hopefully! :)
> 
> Okay... Who had the luxury of seeing Lyndsey Turner's production of Hamlet? Oh. My. Goodness. Pure awesomeness, and especially for a Shakespeare nerd like me!
> 
> Une-papillon-de-nuit
> 
> 25 July, 2020


	9. Chapter 9: Doubt That the Sun Doth Move

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Tom Hiddleston! The countdown is almost audible as Summer nears its end...

**Chapter 9: Doubt That the Sun Doth Move | August, 2015**

**Benedict**

It's the opening night of the play, and I'm sitting backstage reviewing a few lines which are giving me a bit of (irrational) anxiety, when I look up, noticing Holly, ushered by a backstage assistant, in my peripheral vision. I had to go through some loopholes to acquire a seat for her, since the show sold out with such startling speed—but we were successful, and she's been as excited as me about tonight's show for the past week.

"Just five minutes," says the attendant with a note of apology, as he delivers her to me, and I nod at him in friendly understanding before he turns and goes away. Now I turn my gaze upon Holly, whose eyes are wide as she looks around the space, the stage visible through the wings.

"This is... magical," she says after a moment of quiet observance, and looks up at me with a wide grin on her face, shining through the half-light. "I'm so excited! Are you nervous?"

"Nervous!" I exclaim with an exaggerated scoff—and sarcastic, in truth. "Who do you think you're talking to!"

She shakes her head at me, seeing through my façade, and, unexpectedly, I feel a sudden, light palpitation of my heart in my chest. I can't tell whether it's because of my nerves, or because she's here with me backstage, in this sacred place which I can tell she has such respect for, so very close... There's something dear and fragile, altogether mighty and loveable about her face in this light, that I'm only seeing, now, for the first time.

"Okay, Ben," she says to me, bringing me back to the present, "here." She looks up slightly, scanning the invisible teleprompter in her mind, and then quotes the line which leads into the part she knows I've been worrying over: "A truant disposition, good my lord."

Then she looks at me with a half-expectant faith, and before I know it, I've remembered my line without any effort at all: "I would not have your enemy say so, Nor shall you do mine ear that violence, to make it truster of your own report against yourself."

"See!" she says with a feisty smile, mock-punching me in the chest, though she has to incline her arm upwards significantly given her short stature. "You're going to be perf-"

"Someone get her into costume!"

We both wheel around slightly, to where Lyndsey, my director, stands looking on, in the midst of making her pre-show rounds, checking up on everybody. I chuckle at her comment, turning back to see Holly, blushing all the way to the tips of her ears. Lyndsey sees her reaction, as well, and approaches with a reserved smile and a hand extended to be shaken, which Holly takes rather shyly.

"I'm Lyndsey," she says to Holly.

"Holly," she responds with a smile.

Lyndsey smiles and laughs slightly as she looks between us with a glint of humor in her eye. "I'm so glad to see someone so young, so excited about Shakespeare—but I'm afraid I have to ask you to rejoin the audience—we're fifteen minutes out, and you're making my Hamlet entirely too happy! But, Benedict, she's right—just relax. This is going to be great." Then she nods between us one last time, taps her watch with a friendly but meaningful smile, and moves on to speak with a huddle of crew near the rear of the wings, double-checking the set.

Holly looks back at me and takes my hands in her smaller ones, smiling widely and giving up a high-pitched sound of extreme excitement. "Break a leg!" she whispers excitedly, and then, with a final chuckle and an energetic grin between us, she takes her leave and finds her escort again, waving once more from the shadows before leaving to rejoin the audience.

After her leaving, I settle back into my pre-show routine, finding a few of my coworkers, congratulating, encouraging—but all the way up until the final five minutes before places are called, I think long and hard about what Lyndsey had said of Holly... I suppose it is the truth that I'm made happy by her, extremely happy, in fact... But now is not the time to think about that, and I have to press down the smile the thought of her plants upon my lips to start getting into character.

* * *

Backstage Is full of an entirely different energy after nearly three hours of Shakespeare performance, and I feel myself sweating from exertion and ecstasy at the completion of the opening night performance—and with such success! I've just shared a relieved embrace with Sian, and am heading for the main backstage hallway for a bottled water when I hear the slight patter of feet and suddenly Holly's arms are wrapped around my chest from behind, her smile so wide I can feel it physically against my side.

"Oh. My. God!" she says against my ribs as I turn around and, knowing it would be pointless to pry her off of me (not to mention that I don't particularly want to, either), return her embrace with a light-hearted chuckle, adrenaline still pulsing through my veins. "You were absolutely stunning!" she says, after a moment, looking up at me and leaning back slightly, my arms still around her shoulders. "How the hell do you—I can't even express—That was fantastic."

I'm grinning down at her, trying to sort the jumble of emotions and words in my head into a response, but at that moment I spot, over her shoulder, another figure approaching, coming directly toward us, and a great smile breaks across my face when I identify the figure as my good friend Tom.

"Tom!" I shout towards him, letting Holly go slightly, but letting my hand linger on her comfortable shoulder. She looks in the newcomer's direction with her smile still plastered on her face. "I thought you couldn't make it!" I exclaim, pulling him into a tight embrace, smiling and letting him go again as he claps me in a brotherly way on the back.

"You know I never pass up the chance to surprise you," he says with a cheeky grin, then turning to Holly with a bright but slightly wary smile. "Hello, you," he says in his deft, friendly tone, bending over and pretending to huff and puff as he sees I already have company. "You beat me to it. You young people, I say—it took me way too long to shoulder my way out of there."

"Holly-" I interject, glad to see that she's already smiling widely at his sense of humor and friendliness, "this is my excellent friend Tom."

She extends her hand with a bit more bravery than she'd had when being faced by Lyndsey before the show, earlier, and Tom smiles down at her from his six feet and two inch height—even taller than myself—and takes her hand with a gentle firmness. "Nice to meet you," Holly says to him, as they shake hands, and I search her eyes for a moment, wondering whether she recognizes him—but it seems to me that she doesn't.

I glance up at Tom and I can see in a half-second that he's extremely grateful for this. Lately, he's become used to people, especially women, spotting him and knowing him virtually everywhere (as have I). So, I can tell that it's a relief and a welcome change of pace for him to be so casual and friendly with someone who isn't awkward or starstruck.

"How are you and Ben acquainted?" Tom asks, glancing at me with a question in his eye though he directs his question, chivalrously, to Holly.

Holly looks towards me, in turn, unsure of how to answer, whether now is a time to protect my privacy, and I acknowledge her silent urging for me to answer the question. "She's been staying in my guest room for the duration of a summer internship. She's going to be the greatest literary mind of her generation."

"Oh..." says Holly humbly, smacking my arm lightly and looking sheepishly at the floor—though, truly, I believe there is a measure of truth in my words, and I think that a small part of her knows it—or at least strongly hopes for it—too.

"Don't look too shy, my friend," says Tom to her, "Ben has an excellent eye for people with creative gifts. I think I'll take his word for it, in your case." She smiles at him shyly and visibly keeps herself from shaking her head modestly. Tom gives me a look of questioning, but only briefly, and I can tell he's wondering whether our connection runs deeper than I've let on. A moment later, though, the moment has passed and he says to me, "I'm only in London for the night; I head out on a plane dark and early tomorrow morning, but I had to be here for the opening."

"Well, hold on a minute," I say, the cogs turning in this state of post-show elation, "why don't you come back to my flat for the evening? Just some casual food, some catching up. Would that be alright with you, Holly? He's a very good friend, and very easy to get along with."

"I don't bite," Tom assures her with a smile. She looks between us, and then up at me, and nods her head in the affirmative, smiling, though I can tell she's placing herself slightly out of her comfort zone.

"Well, that's settled, then," I say with a grin, squeezing her shoulder lightly again, just as I see an assistant waving to me urgently from across the space. "Look-" I say to them both, "I've got to go say a few words to the press. Could you wait here for me? I should be back within the quarter hour."

Both of them nod in the affirmative, and I bid them farewell with a promising wave, winking supportively at Holly as I go toward the hall, and the assistant. I can see in Holly's eyes as she gazes after me that she's a bit nervous at being left alone with someone she's just met, but as I walk away, taking a bottled water from the assistant and thanking her profusely, I say Tom say something to Holly behind me, which makes her laugh—a light, genuine laugh—and I smile to myself, knowing that I've left each of them in good hands until my return.

* * *

On the ride back to my flat we have the cab stop outside a pizza place, and send Holly (the least conspicuous of us) in to get our large cheese. While she waits and pays with cash which Tom had given up for the good of the cause, she sticks her tongue out at us through the window, making us both chuckle. It's very late at night when we get back to my flat, but we have plenty of adrenaline and excitement at the company of our new dynamic between the three of us to keep tiredness at bay.

Tom looks like a giant next to Holly, especially once she's in her stocking feet, but she plays it cool, once even making a clever remark: "So, Tom, how's the weather up there?" which makes him laugh and offer her a boisterous fist-bump, which she takes.

I can't help but feel extremely proud of her, for all the work she's done to gain back her confidence in the past months, overcoming the terrors of her past and becoming more comfortable in her body. A spark of happiness is kindled in my heart, at knowing that I've had a small part in her healing—though it is still underway, and it would be terribly untrue of me to lay claim to any but a small part of her improvement. She's fought so hard for it on her own, and It's been my privilege to be able to help her along and offer her support, trying to exemplify the way she should expect to be treated by men.

They both won't let me hear the end of praise, calling me a sensational Hamlet and raving about my deliveries of the better-known soliloquies and monologues. I shake my head humbly, grateful for the complements, but incapable of shaking that little irking feeling which keeps me coming back to this job, keeps me striving for a better performance night after night.

But after a few rapid-passing hours of energetic conversation and our shared pizza, sleepiness starts to get the better of Holly, and she is forced to excuse herself at last, admitting that she simply can't keep her eyes open any longer, and that she ought to leave us, since she has an early morning tomorrow. I give her a gentle embrace good-night and Tom tells her he's overjoyed to have met her, to know that I'm in good company in London, and that he hopes he'll be able to meet with the two of us again in the not-too-distant future.

She thanks him, and Tom and I wait to say anything further until the sound of her door closing thuds in the hallway beyond. At that moment, he turns to me with a cheeky look in his eye, and an arch in his eyebrow that tells me what's coming before he's even begun to speak. "Ben," he says, as though reprimanding a guilty child, "do tell."

I mimic his facial expression. "Do tell what?" I say, knowing that he's going to ask me more about my relationship with Holly, but having no idea how I'm supposed to answer any of his questions, as I don't truly know any answers, myself.

"Is she, perhaps, a love interest? She is staying in your apartment, Ben. And you must admit, she's very pretty, very intelligent, kind..." I open my mouth slightly, a few indistinct sounds coming out, as I try to vanquish my confusion. He smiles at me and leans in slightly, sensing my unsure nature in regards to Holly, saying, "It's nothing to be ashamed of. Involving yourself with someone wouldn't do you any harm."

"Christ, Tom," I say lightly, though the situation bears a great heaviness and significance in my mind, as I've been pondering it so much lately. "I know that. I just... I'm not quite sure how I feel, on my own. And I doubt that she..."

But at this, I have to trail off, for is it not true that I've caught her eye a few times and wondered whether she's begun to feel the same confusion that I have? There's something inside me that is warmed and made joyful by being around her, something the likes of which I've never felt before, in all this complexity—and the thought of her having the same feeling is nothing short of frightening for its newness...

I shake my head to myself and dismiss the line of conversation, which Tom allows me to do, and then we spend the rest of the night speaking about upcoming projects, and when we might get together again—before, ultimately, he has to leave the flat and get in a cab to his own London residence, where he hopes to catch a couple hours of shuteye before making the journey to the airport. But the thoughts he's planted in my mind linger much, much longer, and I wake up with a strange, fizzing feeling of mingling sleeplessness and intrigue next morning.

* * *

In the following days some critics release reviews that are not entirely positive, calling my Hamlet "too sane" in the role. Through all of this, however, Holly is my enthusiastic defender, telling me not to be worried by these more negative reviews. "It speaks right to so many people," she says, "because, when you're inside that type of mindset which Hamlet finds itself in, you really do think you're sane... you don't see yourself as totally mad, the way an audience watching your inner turmoil would. I think you've done something revolutionary, bringing an audience into that believed sanity..." An it's when we have these conversations of such depth and emotional understanding, when I begin to think more on what Tom told me that night, and to begin understanding my feelings towards her a little more than before.

In the mornings, before she leaves for her internship and before I go to the theatre to start preparation for nightly performances, we take to going on jogs together. We stick to places where it's not too buys, loving the risk of it all, the intense enjoyment that comes from the slight tang of danger in our actions. Sometimes we play childlike games with one another and I feel years and years younger in my heart, outrunning her in short spurts, taking advantage of my much taller stature, but then being overtaken by her and her steady persistence in the long run. I'm coming to fall in love with the perfectly balanced combination of challenge and ease that comes with being with her.

It's an utter and overwhelming relief that I have at the fact she's not put off by the fact that we have to do some sneaking around when we want to venture outside together. It's elating for me to see her, not put off or overly excited by the fact of my fame. She treats me like a completely normal person, casually, without completely neglecting my passions and the fact of my being well-known—and the feeling is wonderful.

Most nights, I'm extremely exhausted after shows, so tired, that I arrive back to the flat, bid a short goodnight to her, and then collapse into bed. But at other times, I have some precious energy left over from performance, and on those nights we sit together in the main room, where she sometimes goes to write. She's taken to sitting in the big windowsill looking over the alley converted into a garden, and often, when she perches there, I'll find myself looking at her... finding her body so small, and loveable, gentle but undeniably strong. We settle into a simple comfort with each other, talking about our days. She's started to write a novel she's extremely excited about, a totally new idea, she says—and though she can't let me read any of it until she's done (a part of the creative process which I suppose I can understand in my own way), she promises to let me, once she's finished.

* * *

On one particular night, which falls between the two extremes of exhaustion and energy, I arrive home, peek into her room to see that she's fallen asleep early, and head into my own room for a shower, thinking about heading to bed myself. But when I get out again, dressed and on my way to the kitchen for a glass of water, I hear, coming from her bedroom door, the low sound of reigned-in tears, and the sound of a professional, authoritative male voice made tinny, coming through a phone speaker. I feel slightly awkward pressing my ear to the door, but worry about what might be going on, and want to make sure that she's safe.

After a moment of listening, I hear the man on the other end stop talking, and the sound of her putting her phone down somewhere and crying lightly, almost with relief. I tap on the door twice with two fingers and she calls "Come in?" through her tears.

I open the door a crack and stick my head in, saying, "Is everything alright?"

At first she shakes her head no, but then she presses her hands to her face and wipes away her tears stiffly, instead nodding yes, and almost managing a slightly melancholy, confused smile. "They, um..." she says after a moment of hesitation, trying to decide whether to be relieved or devastated, and deciding on the first option. "They found my father. He's been detained... they gave him a life sentence."

My hands go to my mouth, fingers steepling against my lips in my surprise at the news, and I want to shed a few tears, myself, but am incapable, my reservoirs already exhausted after the show. Instead I cross the room to her and open my arms, letting her fall against my chest, where she trembles but manages to smile, as we share a victorious embrace.

In the next days alone she becomes infinitely better and more confident than she had been before, and it is with great delight that I watch her become more comfortable in her skin, less fearful when we go outside together, more comfortable even when we are alone, as though her father's being locked away—where he should have been long, long ago—has relived her of a tremendous physical weight, along with the emotional and physical weights that have plagued her for so long. It's a joy to us both to know that, now, she has given herself the permission to begin living her life again, to begin building herself up into who she's always wanted to be, into who she has always been—finally allowing her true self out into the world.

* * *

To take an emotional load off, as August comes to its conclusion and the marathon of nightly performances has begun to weigh heavy on my mind, I take to reserving some time for myself physically in the late mornings, after Holly and I return from our jogging, to relieve myself of physical tension as well.

I'm in the heat of it, nearing the final climb to the peak of my physical relief, when Holly taps on my bedroom door. "Ben, somebody's calling you?" she says, and I can hear my phone-which i realize I left out in the main room—ringing through the door.

For a moment, the sound of her voice makes me harder than before, and a wave of heat takes over my face as I realize this, slightly embarrassed. I'm always sent over the edge, but I'm still not quite there, and so I manage, "One second!" in the direction of the door, shielding my current state from my voice as much as possible and succeeding reasonably.

I focus all my attention on banishing my erection before going to the door, not confident in my ability to hide myself from her. Okay, come on, come on... I think, focusing. A freezing lake... Running naked through the street in midwinter... Eight times five is forty... 'Oh, that this too, too solid flesh would melt, thaw and resolve itself into a dew, or that the everlasting had not fixed his canon against self-slaughter...' THERE we go.

At last I stumble, relieved, across the floor from my bed and answer the door, smiling apologetically for making Holly wait and taking the phone call just in time, surprised to hear my agent's voice on the other end of the line. He tells me in a few short, efficient sentences that there's been a nigh-disaster with press which he's just averted, and wants to make me aware of. Someone had caught a photograph of myself and Holly jogging together in the park, and had posted it to a popular website with a caption questioning the identity of the "mystery girl," but he had caught it before more than five views could accumulate, and had payed the photographer a large sum of money to have the photo canceled and destroyed. I thank him very deeply and he cautions me to be more careful with whoever the young woman in question is, before we hang up on relieved terms.

I tell Holly what had happened—or, what had almost happened—and she shares in my great relief—but it's with a slight bit of dejectedness that we have to decide together not to go out together anymore unless under the cover of darkness-which will be unlikely given our contradictory schedules. We know, though, that our luck of not being spotted for so long had been bound to be short lived, and we only have a few days left together to begin with...

* * *

It's with a mellow feeling of sadness that I accompany her in a cab to the airport on the first day of September. The first day of her semester is on the third back in New York, and her internship had ended a week ago, leaving her a week to herself, which she'd chosen to spend with me. On the road to the airport from the flat we bit each other long goodbyes, not too melancholy, as we know that we will be seeing each other again, as soon as the possibility arises, and we discuss or personal hopes in the upcoming months. The showings of Hamlet will end at the end of October, and I tell her of a few projects I might pursue afterwards. She tells me about a part-time position she's been offered in a publishing house back in New York, in which she can work at the same time as continuing her studies.

Knowing that this visit was the first time she'd ever been outside of the United States, I express a measure of regret at how rigid my schedule had been, leaving so little time to spend with her. I tell her I'd love to have her again, at a time when we are both in a more spacious time in our lives, so that I might be able to show her more around London and around the other, beautiful parts of England in which she's expressed such a strong historical and aesthetic interest. She affirms this plan with great eagerness, and I feel myself smile more largely than I have in a long time, extremely graceful at having been able to be with her throughout this summer—for it seems that there is a part of me that has come directly from our time together, which I would not be the same without—which I would be the worse without.

At the last minute, when the cab is parked at the curb outside the airport, I lean in to give her a final, farewell hug before she gets out with her single suitcase. But, in one last pivotal second that neither of us seem to expect, but which is initiated by us both in equal measure, both our heads turn slightly towards each other, and we share, suddenly, in an unexpected kiss. Simple, soft, plain, but remarkably enticing, her lips soft under my own, small and delicate yet determined in their gentle, probing movements. I can tell that she's never kissed this way before, but the feeling of her caution is enjoyable to me, and I can tell my own mouth is enjoyable to her, too—her little body gives up a slight shudder against me when I pull her ever-so-carefully closer.

And then, at last, I have to let her go after a few sweet, savored moments, lengthened in their importance, but still far too short for our liking.

When I draw away from her I catch an expression of questioning in her eyes, and my first instinct is to swallow in surprise at my actions. "Sorry," I say on instinct, worried at what the look in her eyes might mean. "Was that... was that okay?"

The brush-strokes of heat already on her face deepen by a degree, and I feel an intense warmth spread through my own chest at the memory of the feeling of her lips, her small but supple body...

"Yes," she says in answer to my question, quietly, a smile perched on her precious, small mouth.

And she kisses me cautiously again, on the cheek, before squeezing my hand, saying goodbye and thanking me with only her bright eyes and smile. "I'll let you know when I land," she tells me, and then leaves me to gaze after her as she disappears, dragging her little suitcase behind her, through the automatic glass doors and into the current of people inside the airport.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaah, you guys! I am loving this so, so much, I can't even contain my excitement! It feels so weird being this pumped about my own story—I don't even know, but it must be a good sign! And I am very happy to see that you guys are really liking it, too! Thank you so, so much for your consistency and support!
> 
> Just have to say... I REALLY wasn't expecting Tom Hiddleston to show up in this chapter, it just... sort of... happened. I felt like, since Holly has Alex as her devil's advocate, Benedict should have one, as well, if only for the good of the plot. I might actually bring him in as a more major character and do something with him later, but I also might not... I'm still in a great place with this story where I have a general idea of where it is going to go, but there's still a lot of room for change and additions of characters / plot development.
> 
> He could be REALLY fun, though...
> 
> Hmm.
> 
> Let me know how you feel about his possible involvement!
> 
> Lots of love,
> 
> Une-papillon-de-nuit
> 
> 27 July, 2020


	10. Chapter 10: Doubt Truth to be a Liar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These two stubborn folks finally admit their feelings...

**Chapter 10: Doubt Truth to be a Liar | October, 2015**

**Holly**

"Come ON, Holly! Please? Pretty please, with a cherry on top?"

This is Alex's idea of a convincing plea. She's starting to beg and it's getting on my nerves so much that I almost give in... But I am bent on finishing Paradise Lost tonight, so that I can get the head-start I need on the lengthy essay due in three days. Today is my nineteenth birthday, and I can understand that she wants to make me feel special—but to be honest, I've always hated my birthday. And going out to see a movie is especially unappealing at the moment, since it's so time-consuming. I hate the idea of disappointing my friend, especially when she's only trying to be nice, and to get me to lighten up and have fun... but I'm seriously concerned about my deadline with this book...

"Holly," she says again, widening her eyes and pouting slightly, as though this really is solely for my own good... which, since Alex sometimes knows what I need more than I do, myself, it probably is... "It's Guillermo del Toro. You LOVED Pan's Labyrinth! The cinematography is supposed to be stunning, and..." She leans in with a look of extreme sincerity on her face, "I'll pay for as much chocolate and popcorn as you want."

We have one of our short staring matches, during which my resolve wears progressively thinner, but after a few moments, we cannot help but both break out laughing. And an hour later, we're both sitting in a movie theatre we frequent, not too far from campus, sitting in decent seats with two large popcorns and ample chocolate bars between us. After only a few minutes of the movie, I find that Alex, as usual, was right about this being a good idea for me. Sitting in the quiet darkness, focusing on the screen and Del Toro's masterful artistic vision, helps me to deeply relax, and let my mind move away from the stresses of school and other aspects of my personal life.

I've almost settled completely into a meditative dream-state when, suddenly, a new character appears onscreen. His name is quickly revealed to be Thomas Sharpe, an Englishman visiting the United States and taking an interest in the main female protagonist of the film. I feel my eyebrows furrow slightly at the sight of him, and think I recognize him from some other film, but I'm not sure, and he's absent in the following scene, so he quickly leaves my mind.

But the next time he appears I do remember, and it makes me stiffen on instinct, and look over at Alex silently, almost holding my breath for the ridiculous feeling coiling around my gut as my pulse speeds up. She sees me looking at her and draws her eyes from the actor on the screen, smiling and wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.

"So hot, right?" she whispers under her breath, so that nobody else can hear. "He's SO good in the Avengers, like, oh my God."

Of course. I suddenly feel profoundly stupid, and my cheeks flush a deep red as I glance back to the actor onscreen, and, surely enough, recognize him as the man Benedict had introduced me to backstage on the opening night of Hamlet—the man who he'd brought back to his flat, the man I'd playfully taunted for his towering height... How embarrassing, not to have had a clue who he was, then. He'd seemed slightly familiar of course, but I hadn't though much of it. Tom had been his name, and I scoff lightly at myself, chuckling and shaking my head as I put the dots together: Tom Hiddleston.

Alex's mouth widens in a smirk as she chews on some buttered popcorn, the light of the screen making her eyes shine gleefully. "Do you have a crush on him?" she whispers with a quiet giggle, noticing the reddening of my cheeks.

I take a deep breath in and out, remembering how unpleasant it had been, keeping my initial acquaintance with Benedict from her, and then having to admit it later, after an embarrassing situation... I decide now that I don't want to experience that again with her, and I decide that I'm going to have to make a point of telling her the truth about these kinds of celebrity encounters, if they continue to happen through my connection to Ben.

"Alex..." I say, keeping my voice very quiet, not wanting someone to hear.

"Yeah?" she says with a shrug, furrowing her eyebrows—she must think I'm crazy.

I exhale deeply and, after taking a few moments to gather myself, say, very softly: "I met him." Her eyes widen to the size of the sun, and I keep going before she can say anything, explaining myself as though on the witness stand: "He was backstage with Ben when I went to see Hamlet, and then..." I stop myself suddenly, not wanting to go too far, but I notice the look of urgent alertness in Alex's eyes, and ascertain that it's too late to exclude the rest of my encounter with him, now. "And..." I continue, "then we went back to Ben's flat together, and had pizza. It was, just casual... I didn't even recognize-"

"Are you KIDDING me?!" she exclaims, her voice a fraction too loud, her eyes containing equal parts exasperation and awe.

I cringe at the volume of her voice and whisper, "Oh, my gosh, keep it down," cowering back into my chair and almost clenching my eyes shut, expecting a hoard of people to swarm down on us for our inappropriate volume.

Some people around us mutter in annoyance, and someone shushes us from a few rows behind, but after another moment, the theater is quiet again, and I can ease up. But only slightly, as Alex is still glaring intrigued daggers of jealousy and excitement at me.

"I'm shutting up for the rest of the movie," she says in a quiet whisper, pointing at me to demonstrate her sincerity, "but when we get out of here, girl, you are SPILLING." She looks at me pointedly, and then shoves some more popcorn in her mouth, signifying the end of the conversation, and leaving me to turn back to the screen in half-peace.

Later that night when we get out of the theater and start on the walk back to campus—which is only three very well-lit blocks away—she makes good on her promise. Reluctantly, and keeping my voice down even though nobody would care to listen into our conversation anyway, I tell her a more detailed explanation of what had happened: Tom coming backstage to green Ben, a decision to go back to Ben's flat together, since the two of them wanted to spend some time together before Tom had to leave somewhere on a plane the following morning. I can tell that she's spending an extreme amount of energy in not prying into what Tom was like in person, and after a few moments of very tense silence, she simply gives up with a sigh of sarcastic disappointment.

"How is it," she says, "that you've so easily stumbled upon this inner circle of hot British men?!"

I scoff slightly at her wording, incapable of keeping the blush from my cheeks at the adjective she'd used... "It's not anything top-secret like that, Alex. They're just friends. Really, just... normal people, plus a lot of talent and a lot of recognition."

She giggles a little and puts her hand over her face as she realizes my point. "Oh, my God," she says, whining a little in slight embarrassment, "you must think I'm such a weirdo for fangirling like this."

She looks at me sheepishly and I shake my head to calm her. "It's okay," I say, "All of this will probably pass before too long, anyway. It's impossible to keep this sort of thing up."

"What do you mean?" she retaliates, as we're just entering the campus, heading towards our dorm hall through the progressively colder autumn night. "It's obvious you two really like each other. I mean... you're practically... involved!"

"Oh, come on," I manage, though I stutter slightly, because a small, slightly confused part of me wants her to be right.

"No, really," she says sincerely. "Use your common sense, Holly. These are the basics of attraction: He wouldn't have just invited you to stay in his apartment for an entire summer... and then promised to see you again as soon as he could, AND introduced you to Tom fucking HIDDLESTON... if he didn't like you. AND I know for a fact that your thoughts and feelings for him aren't totally limited to friendship."

I open my mouth a bit to protest, but a slight croak comes out and my throat closes up. After a beat, I just settle for shaking my head, and I give Alex a look that keeps her from continuing down that path of conversation. But the lingering look she gives me, and the sureness of her words, makes me know that she's right...

* * *

For the past weeks, I've been going every three days to meet the therapist that works with the school, once Alex convinced me that it would be a good idea, and I couldn't refuse without being self-destructive. Truthfully, it's been helpful to meet with someone who can offer me professional advice as far as how to proceed in my situation, after my father's incarceration, and my subsequent liberation from threats from him—for the first time in my life. Overall, her advice as far as exploring my feelings while remaining strong and based in the present have been extremely beneficial. So, though I was surprised, I wasn't completely averse to the idea when, at our last meeting, she suggested that I try masturbating a little.

"It can be a very helpful and redemptive process," she told me, seeing the shock on my face at her suggestion. "It might help you get more comfortable with your body, and to explore your sexuality as an individual, not as how it pertains to other people, or to your father."

I nodded my head in agreement with her, but, really, inside my head, I was thinking—rather spitefully—that she had no idea what she was talking about. Separating the idea of sex from my father, surely, I thought was an impossibility. Being raped almost every day from the age of ten and then doing away with the significance of that wasn't ever going to happen, I thought.

But still I was curious, and though I didn't believe she was right, I wanted very badly for her to be right. So, I snuck into the showers in the middle of the night when nobody else was in there, for the sake of privacy, and tried touching myself—for the first time in many, many years—while the water was running. The first two times were unsuccessful, ending in discomfort or panic, leaving me with tears in my eyes and a general feeling of disgust and shame.

But tonight, on the third try, there's something different about the feeling. Perhaps it has something to do with how exhausted I already am, and my sudden ability to let go of my memories, my anxiety, after a long and tiring day... But I am glad to see that, tonight, I can just let myself relax. And I go with it, wanting to be successful in this endeavor, really believing that, maybe, if I can give myself this pleasure, then my father will be diminished, and start to fade away—and then maybe I won't be so afraid of feeling anymore. I hold strong to this hope as I continue, under the warm, sprinkling water of the shower, to move the tips of my fingers against myself, and then, tentatively, to experiment further...

A few moments pass, and then, without warning, an image comes into my mind—or, rather, less of an image, and more of a general sensation, a feeling of familiarity: a specific movement of Benedict's shoulder, his arm, back in London, the warm, secure feeling of his arms around me, an accidental brush of his elbow or hand against my skin...

By the time I register what's about to happen, it's already too late. I try to stop it, in the final moments before I slip over that edge, which is so unfamiliar to me, except in a forced, sickening sense, as it always was when my father would manipulate my body so cruelly to respond to him. But it's inevitable, and as the waves of extreme elation wash over me, making my chest shudder, I can only whisper, "No, no, no..." to myself.

Quickly after I've come down from the physical high, I rinse myself, turn the shower off, and hurry back into the general restroom space, dressing in my pajamas and hurrying, as though from the scene of a crime, back to mine and Alex's room. I try to shut the event out of my mind, but it's already too late, I know... that general sensation, the essence the smell and... taste... of Benedict... has been seared irrevocably into my mind, connected to that sudden and extreme physical wave of pleasure. And suddenly something like fear and embarrassment, but with an undeniable hint of sweetness, comes into my heart.

Come on, Holly, I say to myself as I make my way down my hall, shaking my head sternly at my uncontrollable feelings. I throw every excuse I can find at myself, to try to dissuade my mind, heart and body from this sudden feeling of extreme inclination and attraction towards Ben. I tell myself he's twenty years younger than I am. I tell myself that, sure, he's friendly towards me, but surely he couldn't feel this way about me, in turn. I'm sure his kindness is something he displays to everyone, and I'm just being foolish by kindling a small bit of hope that there might be something special in his heart, in his eyes, in his smile... reserved solely for me. But I'm being silly. I'm sure he would feel extremely uncomfortable if he knew that I'd thought of him—even accidentally—just before coming to a sexual peak of euphoria.

I try to compose myself but feel another sudden ripple of arousal in my lower abdomen, and have to stop in front of the dorm room, so embarrassed to see Alex in this state that I consider going back downstairs to seek out some privacy on the communal couch, perhaps with a movie. God, what is happening me? But I put my foot down—physically, on the carpet outside the door—and tell myself to get ahold of myself. God, what is happening to me?

When, at last, I get back into the dorm room, it is to find Alex's bed empty, and to feel even more foolish as I remember that she told me earlier not to expect her back until late, since she was going out with some friends. I bury my hands in my hair and pull on it to try and distract myself with pain, but something about the feeling only makes the sensation in my lower zone worse, and I quickly stop, laying down on my bed. But that doesn't work either. All I can do is stand up and pace miserably from one end of the short dorm room to another—only five strides each way, even with my small frame—and try to distract myself from the sudden present-ness of him... But the harder I try, the more consumed I become my thoughts about him... His eyes... His cheekbones... His lips—

"SHUT UP!" I say to myself, with a hissing scold that feels like a shout, but, really, is only a whisper.

In desperation, the firm language offering me a moment of clear-mindedness, I pick up my phone from the desk and check it to distract myself. But, lo and behold, the moment I enter my password, I'm faced with a notification: a waiting message from Benedict (nickname Ben, for the necessary anonymity), which had been sent around ten minutes ago, when I was still in the shower.

"Fuck!" I say to myself, wanting to throw the phone across the room, but forcing myself to breathe in and out. "BAD timing..." I whisper, sitting down and crossing my legs to keep this uncomfortable feeling of want at bay. But I have no choice but to open his message, and I let the storm of my feelings wash away as I'm enveloped in the pressing comfort and light of his demeanor, which comes across even over text...

"Holly," reads his message (So damn sophisticated, I think, incapable of helping imagining his low, alluring voice reading his words directly into my ear). "I hope it's not too late where you are. I have some exciting news! Let me know when you're around. / Cheers, / - Ben."

A tingle of wonder goes through me at the fact of our correspondence, but I shake it away quickly. "Hey, there," I type, "Sorry, I was showering," and send it before I can second guess myself.

Suddenly, everything about what I say, think, and do feels extremely off. I don't know what to think about anything, and a confusion fills up my throat. It seems instantly as though the only solution to this problem would be to have him here with me, physically, to feel the presence of his body, telling me silently that I am redeemable, that I can do nothing but strengthen and improve.

My phone vibrates again suddenly, jarring me out of my reverie. Before looking down at the screen, I feel a sudden spark of tears at the corners of my eyes, at the suddenness and confusion of these feelings. In London, of course, I'd begun to feel a real closeness to Ben—but even in the cab, before I left him to go into the airport, the heavenly kiss between us had seemed too good to be true. I feel like, somehow, there's something I'm missing... I must be tricking myself in some way or another. The whole thing seems not too far off from an illusion, and I feel suddenly dizzy.

I return my focus to Benedict's newest text, hoping to be grounded by his words, but I find, when I read them, that I'm only left more unsteady, reeling and giddy than I was a second before.

The new text reads: "No worries! I hope it was relaxing." (I blush heavily and grow painfully warm at the irony and swat my own wrist in punishment, though it doesn't change my feelings). "I know you're probably settling into bed, and don't want to bother you— But I thought you'd like to know that I'll be coming to New York for filming in the beginning of November. I would love to meet up with you, but I will understand if our schedules cause conflict, or if you would prefer to focus in on your studies."

My heartbeat picks up at the news of his imminent presence in my location... But then, almost immediately, it drops off suddenly and I feel as though I am in the deepest of despairs. How can I possibly meet up with him in person after this new personal development has happened on my end? Surely I would blanch in his presence, and any comfort we worked so hard to cultivate over our summer in London would be instantly nullified. Seeing him physically seems embarrassing and terrifying now.

I set my fingers to typing before I have another chance to think, knowing what I need to do. "That's really great news!" I start, not really sure what I'm doing. "I would love to see you. I will have to wait and see until I find out about my schedule and upcoming exams. I hope you're well! Off to bed..."

And I send it before I even take care to re-read it, or think about how terrible I'll feel later. A few moments pass, and then my phone vibrates again, and I read his final text: "Whatever suits you best. Sleep well! - Ben."

I shut my phone off, plug it into the charger almost violently, and hurry into my bed, like a child convinced that covering themselves with blankets will protect them from the invisible monsters waiting in the corners. But it's still a long time before I fall asleep, and the guilt doesn't diminish even in my dreams.

* * *

To my equal dismay and saddened relief, over the following weeks, there is no communication between the two of us whatsoever. Our texts and calls have, quite suddenly, gone silent, and I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that it's because of the way I said what I said. Part of me regrets it terribly, and I feel a loss of things both past and future. But in the end, I know I have to decide to make my peace with it. After all, I had been right to be nervous about how I'd thought about him physically on that night in the shower... Opening myself up to that type of feeling can only be dangerous. Since then, I've stopped trying to get back 'in touch' with that part of myself, and I lie to the therapist, saying that I've been continuing, not wanting to get into what happened with anybody. But a result of my inactivity after experiencing that extreme physical bliss even that one time, is an extreme and ever-growing frustration. I want the feeling again terribly, but I decide every day to abstain; I don't want to become reliant on the feeling, or, more specifically, to become reliant on Benedict. Especially since I deem it reasonable to take his silence as him finally separating himself from me.

It takes time, but after two weeks, in the very beginning of November, I've decided to be okay with what has happened. I'd known from the beginning it was bound to be short-lived, and it's only because of that one-time experience in the shower that I'm mourning my connection with him so much—or so I tell myself.

I find myself automatically listening to a lot of Sam Smith, feeling slightly sad and gloomy. After a few days of listening to nothing else, though, I identify my common sign of depression, and quickly switch up my music habits. This serves, in my desperate mind, only as evidence that I'd been becoming dangerously dependent on Benedict... the separation must be a positive thing. Right?

"Oh my God!" says Alex, at one point in early November, her voice shattering through my recently-acquired barrier of separation from the world. I can't muster the strength to turn to her, but it doesn't seem to really matter to her whether I'm listening or not. "Benedict's coming to New York for Doctor Strange!"

"Yeah, I know," I hear myself say, down a very long tunnel.

Alex scoffs and slumps down next to me, gratefully seeming to take the textbook in front of me as the source of my impersonable manner. "You have to keep me informed on these things, girl," she says sarcastically, trying to cheer me up. "I deserve the inside scoop." She gives up a little giggle, and looks at me for a moment, before taking my avoidance of her eyes as a sign to leave me alone, and starts in on her own studies without another word.

I feel almost like crying. I still haven't told Alex about the state of things between Benedict and myself, because a part of me doesn't want it to be true... and admitting it aloud to her would make it true.

It's a few days later, when I finally have to escape Alex and my own guilt by going to a café far from campus, instead of using my usual study area in the library, where anybody can approach me, especially Alex. I feel even more upset at myself for doing this, feeling as though I'm abandoning her, as though I'm a terrible human being... but I know that if I have to endure any human interaction, I might snap, and I can't have that.

I've never been in this café before, but the chance of scene is welcome, and I'm the happiest I've been in weeks when I realize that there's a table right in the back corner, far away from the majority of the other people in the café, where I can set myself up for a relaxed, antisocial study session. I make it to the table quickly and lay out my textbooks, instantly sitting down and forcing myself to copy mathematics problems into a notebook, almost mindlessly at first, until I start to comfortably tune out the noise of the diner, and focus in on my goal.

It seems as though no time passes, then, between the moment I sit down, and the moment, suddenly, a sort of uncomfortable hush of awareness goes over the other people in the diner. For a moment I think it might just be one of those awkward moments that sometimes happen in the city, when people stop talking with no real reason, expecting it to pass. But a few more seconds pass, and then I'm forced to look up. And I instantly regret it when I do.

Before my eyes fall on the small group of people who have just entered the café, I hear, vaguely, the words: "Hello. Could we get a table, please?" And instantly, I feel all the warmth disappear from my body in a snap. I feel as though I'm about to be faint, or be sick, or simply die... I would know that voice anywhere.

I look up, incapable of stopping myself, and my eyes are met with Benedict: or, rather Doctor Strange, his costume and cape draped around him like true armor, the likes of which I don't have and never will—fake blood covering his face, smiling at the cashier.

Before he can notice me back—though I'm sure I'm invisible to him now—I look back down at my textbook with my eyes swimming with tears, wanting to hide but knowing I have nowhere to go, and wish in futility but with all my might, nevertheless, to disappear.

* * *

**Benedict**

I wasn't sure what to make of Holly's shortness over text that night, and took it, at first, as a slip of her fingers due to the lateness of the hour in her time zone. Yet, as the days had counted up and silence reigned supreme against us, I began to doubt myself, and to wonder whether I'd said something offensive... First, I looked through our texts almost religiously. Finding nothing glaringly wrong, there, I decided that it must have been that I'd imposed myself upon her in the cab outside the airport in London, when I'd kissed her. In the moment I'd thought that she and I had both been equally responsible for its initiation, but soon it grew on me that, possibly, I'd only been telling myself that in the heat of my own desire. For a few days I formulated a plan to apologize for my actions, but then, I began to doubt myself, and masked my own shame and trepidation by telling myself I was merely giving her some space. When I arrived in New York I saw the chance to brooch the subject of my presence to her again, but I ended up procrastinating, confused, myself, and not saying anything at all.

But now, as I'm sitting with a few friends around a table in the café on a shooting break, I regret my actions gravely. For, sitting right across the space of the cafe, looking down at her textbook as though willing it to become a portal, is Holly. And I can tell from the tenseness all over her little body, that she's very aware of my presence, and of my eyes on her.

In a perfect universe, we would never had suffered so many weeks of silence. She would get up from her table, come over to ours, and join us—and nobody in the café would question or suppose. But this is not a perfect universe. The silence still plagues the space between us, and she would never dare to approach me in public. Still, I can't help but look at her, almost probingly, that foolish hope welling up and stirring in my chest. And after a moment, she does look up at me, too, returning my gaze with an iron-hardness in her eyes, which breaks after a moment to reveal a great, confused sadness. I cannot tell completely from this distance, but it seems that she may have started to cry, though her face remains as still as a cold, devastated statue's.

"Ben, you alright?" I hear from beside me, and turn back to my companion with difficulty, managing a polite smile and taking a sip of my coffee. The next time I glance back up to look towards Holly's table, she's stuffing her books and materials into her backpack. When I look back up a second time, she is gone, the tinkling of the bell tied to the door, the only evidence of her ever having been there.

* * *

"Are you crying?" I ask her over the phone, a confusing balance of anger and devastation playing in my own heart when I consider the possibility. It took a great amount of resolve to make it through the remainder of the filming for today, and by the time I got back to my hotel room, I was too exhausted and distraught to do anything but yield to my primary instinct and call Holly on the phone. I couldn't bear to send her a text, which seemed too impersonal. I almost gave up and let her go, officially, when she didn't answer the phone the first time, but on the second attempt, she'd answered, and given up a sniffle, prompting my first words to her.

"No," she says in answer to my question, her voice tense, resisting the natural urge to slip back into our easy conversation of months ago. "I have a cold." I hear her sniffle again and decide to believe she's telling the truth, even if part of me still suspects she's been in tears... because of me...

"Holly, I want to apolog-"

"Please, don't do this, Benedict. It's okay."

I inhale sharply, surprised at her words and her interruption, not sure what to make of them. I decide to wait and let her elaborate, but an entire minute passes, and she says nothing at all.

"Holly..." I start again, slowly, to let her speak again if she wishes, but still she makes no sound but another sniffle, and a barely-suppressed cough, which I'm pretty sure is faked. "It was wrong of me not to respond," I continue after a moment, taking advantage of her silence, telling the complete truth. "I thought you were upset with me for kissing you back in London, and I didn't want to press you into anything... But then I became worried, and... foolish, and I didn't follow up. This is my fault, and I hope..." I almost tell her that I hope she'll forgive me, and I still do, but I decide not to say it, not wanting to sway her into feeling any obligation to me. Perhaps it had been right for us to slowly drift apart in this way; though I've come to the full understanding, by now, that I want her, it is not lost on me that, by being with me, she would be in great danger of having her life taken from her. And she is so gifted, so intelligent and full of life and passion, so young...

"I wasn't angry with you," she says suddenly, breaking through my thoughts. "I..." She breathes out with such force that the speaker of my cell vibrates against my ear almost painfully and I hear her blow her nose on the other end of the line before sighing and seeming to steel herself again. "Ben, I've got to tell you something, and I don't want you to be upset, okay? I really... I really don't know how to say this, and I've never had to say this to anyone before."

She waits a moment, and I say, with a measure of trepidation, "I won't be upset with you."

I hear her sigh again, not with complete security, but, again, seeming to steel herself against the situation, against some corporeal punishment that might suddenly befall her for what she plans to say. "I was afraid of responding to you, after that night, because... Ben, I think..."

She makes an agitated sound in her throat, and it's now clear that she's stopped trying to trick me into thinking that she's suffering from a cold rather than tears. For a minute, I painfully listen to her cry, feeling a dread in my chest, my body cramping as I sit on the edge of my suddenly-stiff hotel bed, wishing that I might be with her, to embrace her, to quell her anguish, but knowing that, likely, my presence would only make it worse.

After a minute she manages to compose herself. "I'm sorry," she says again, breaking off and focusing on her breathing.

"Take your time," I say, my voice lower than usual, caught in my throat.

"Ben, I have feelings for you," she says after another beat, very suddenly, and all in a half-breath, so that I have to re-trace her words before grasping them. The second that I do, she starts again, still speaking quickly, as though her words are leaving her without her consent: "Real feelings. After the kiss, I thought it must have just been a slip-up, on your part. I felt so odd about it, and I thought, maybe, it hadn't even happened, when you didn't say anything about it afterward... So I tried to ignore it, but then, I couldn't help... I began to think about you more... in that way... I can't believe I'm telling you this." She takes a long, shuddering breath, and I want to interject, but I don't know what I would say, and she begins suddenly, before I have a chance to embarrass myself. "But I was afraid of becoming involved with you like that, of becoming reliant... I've never been in a relationship before. I'm terrified of that whole idea, that sort of thing... And, of course, I had no idea how YOU felt about ME, and I just got overwhelmed, and scared..." Her breath catches in her throat and she's deadly silent for a moment before saying, in a terrified whimper, "I'm so sorry, I don't even know what I'm saying."

But I know that she's told me the truth, the full, pure truth, however painful and unexpected... and there is something in this which gives me a breath of silent, pressing hope. For in her own anxieties, I recognize, as in a mirror, my own. I press my forehead to my palm, massage the bridge of my nose, and cannot hold back the slight chuckle that enters my throat, the smile of relief that breaks across my lips, the tears gathering at the corners of my eyes. I hear her waiting with bated breath on the other end of the line, and across the space between us, I reach an encouraging, steady hand of honesty and... hopefully (oh, God, hopefully), of love.

"Holly, listen to me, I beg you," I begin. And then I tell her the most sincere and tender contents of my heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eek!
> 
> Thank you for reading! I have some positive feedback about Tom Hiddleston, so I think I'll go ahead and include him a bit more in the story. We'll see where that goes! If you were wondering, the movie Alex took Holly to see in the beginning of the chapter was Crimson Peak.
> 
> Also, in case you didn't know, that incident with the café ACTUALLY happened... I couldn't resist using it as a plot point!
> 
> Using capital letters for words usually bugs me extremely, but I've decided that, since it's much easier than underlining or italicizing words, I'll go ahead and use them to make some words stand out. I hope it doesn't annoy anybody! If it does, I can totally change it.
> 
> Please nobody take offense to the reference to Sam Smith's music in this chapter! I personally can listen to his music any time or season, and don't find it very depressing, but one friend of mine considers listening to his songs a personal marker for a state of sub-happiness—so that's why I chose to use him in that way. I'm sure literally nobody cares but me. XD
> 
> Love you all to pieces, and hope that you're doing MARVEL-ously! (Ha-ha).
> 
> Une-papillon-de-nuit
> 
> 28 July, 2020


	11. Chapter 11: But Never Doubt I Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holly joins Benedict at his parents' country house for the winter holidays. The tenderhearted meeting concludes with a startling segue into a new lifestyle for Holly.

**Chapter 11: But Never Doubt I Love | December, 2015**

**Holly**

An airport two days before Christmas has never been a more warm and comfortable place: I've never been in one at this time of year before, of course—but there's not even a hint of usual holiday-time anxiety in my chest as I sit waiting for my flight to a little town in Northumberland, England, to begin boarding. If there's anything causing me nerves, it's Alex's chatter from the other end of my phone, which, thankfully, will be cut off withing ten or so minutes by the announcement that it's time to board. So, for now, I sit in my chair and listen to her ramble, and I can't deny that some of her words—and their main topic—do send a pleasant little chill down my neck at times.

"How can you be playing this so cool!" she says, for the umpteenth time, so loudly that I, again, have to turn the volume on my speaker down. "Like, he's taking you to his PARENTS' HOUSE. For Christmas, Holly! That's a huge, huge deal! What if... what if you guys get married! What if you guys have kids!"

I sigh heavily. "You're getting way ahead of yourself, Alex. Sure, we've defined ourselves beyond 'just friends' but that doesn't mean it's that kind of serious. Don't jinx anything, okay?"

This makes her pause for a moment: though never known to pass up an excuse to get excited, Alex does have a slight inclination to be superstitious. I know after a few moments of silence and a sigh from her end of the line that I've struck gold with this tactic, and that she won't be bothering me too much more about myself and Benedict—at least not immediately.

"So... have you talked to his parents before? Like, over the phone, or something like that?" she says, still not ready to part with the topic of my destination, but, clearly, willing to back off a little.

"I've said hello, you know," I tell her, getting a little nervous at her point. "Ben just arrived there a few days ago, so they've been there on the other end of our phone calls. But I haven't, you know, REALLY talked to them."

"Are you nervous?" she probes, a little giggle in her voice.

"Of course I'm nervous!" I say to her with a hissing whisper, but incapable of helping myself from smiling. Ben's parents and I have exchanged very minimal words, but they seem open and easygoing enough, and I'm also given faith that I'll be perfectly comfortable in their company by the fact that they produced someone as wonderful as Benedict. Yet... I know that sometimes, those assumptions can be misleading (I mean... look at the movie Meet the Parents), so I try to keep an open mind.

"I'm sure you're going to love them!" she squeals. "And they're going to love you, too! And everyone's going to love everyone!"

"Alex..." I warn, not wanting her to get too overexcited again.

"Sorry," she peeps, but still laughs. "Well, I know you wanted to call Ben before you got onboard, so I'll let you go. Try to get some beauty sleep before you land!"

I scoff comedically. "You know me—I can't sleep on planes, or in cars, or, basically, anywhere but on a solid, unmoving floor. But, for you... I suppose I could try."

"Okay, okay, I'll stop bothering you!" she says, and I can tell just from the way her voice wobbles that she's literally jumping up and down on the other end of the line. "Love you!"

"I'll let you know when I land," I assure her, and then she squeals again before hanging up the phone.

I smile widely, and feel my face warm up at the knowledge of how much she cares about me, how silly all of this feels, how much like a movie. Though Ben is one of the most grounding forces in my entire life at the moment, I still can't help but sometimes get the feeling that I'm about to float right off the face of the earth. That, or, that I'm about to wake up and realize this was all a dream...

To put a stop to that line of thinking before I can get upset or anxious, I look back at my phone and open my messages with Ben. "You awake?" I type, aware that, since it's five in the evening, here, it will be almost midnight, where he is. He'd promised earlier to call me before I boarded, but I don't want to expect anything, and waking him up with a phone call is just short of a nightmare scenario in my mind.

I send the message, and put my phone away, sure that he's already fallen asleep—but, lo and behold, just seconds later, my phone starts to buzz and I scramble to take it back out of my carry-on, having to pinch my lips together to avoid smiling from ear to ear and attracting the attention of the mostly stony-faced travelers surrounding me.

"Holly, how are you!" he exclaims in his easy-going way, but I can tell from the lowness of his voice that he's tired.

"You shouldn't have stayed up with me," I tell him, already blushing to the tips of my ears and deciding not to care that a few people sitting in the row of seats across from me have started to notice.

"Are you knocking me for wanting to make sure you're safe?" he sings with a laugh—and despite the public setting, I'm more than willing to enter into one of our increasingly frequent playful arguments.

"You've done altogether too much for me already. A first class plane ticket, a stay over the Christmas vacation at your parents' house..."

"You're being entirely too modest, Miss Whitaker. I would never have invited you if I wasn't enthralled by the company you offer."

"Well, Mr. Cu—" I clap a hand over my mouth suddenly, barely catching myself and sucking in a sharp, sudden breath of mixed terror and amusement. For a beat, I can hear Ben tense on the other end of the line as well, but then we both seem to exhale simultaneously, and I give up a little giggle at the near-disaster. "That was a close one," I tell him. "But It looks like you'll be winning this one. I have no chance in this courtroom if I can't address you, formally, by your last name."

He chuckles a little and I can almost hear him sarcastically shrugging his shoulders: "Well, if we're in a courtroom, you could always address me as 'your honor,' Miss Whitaker," he says deeply, almost flirtatiously, the suppressed rumble of his voice sending a light shiver from my head to toe.

I feel my jaw loosen at his suggestion, and I scoff lightly after a moment of speechlessness, shaking my head hard enough for him to hear it on the other end of the line. "How dare you!" I say in a whisper, and the sound of his chuckle makes me smile so widely that I feel the need to cover it with the sleeve of my sweater so that the people around me will stop casting me annoyed, speculative looks.

Suddenly, from the desk near the opening to the boarding bridge, comes the announcement that boarding is beginning now, and I start to gather up my carry-on backpack, grinning at the thought of what's inside. I put a lot of thought into a gift for Ben, and I think I struck gold with the exact copy of Hamlet which Mark Whishaw used for the 1972 production. I might have put it in my suitcase if Alex hadn't made me pack so many clothes that it was impossible to fit—and, besides, I like having it close to me.

"Well-" I ALMOST say 'your honor' as he'd proposed in jest, but then decide at the last moment against it, still making a conscious effort to be careful "-Mr. Ben, I've got to board my flight, now. So I suppose this session is adjourned." I pick up the backpack, check for the hundredth time that I have my passport and other needed documents on my person, and then start for the desk with a number of other people in the first boarding group, who look much more like they belong in the first class than I do...

"Hmm," Benedict says from the other end of the line, still not over our bit. "Mr. Ben just doesn't quite cut it, don't you think?"

"Shut up," I say, trying to be short, but I'm still incapable of keeping the lilt of amusement out of my voice; I find myself far too comfortable and happy with him to argue—even playfully—for very long.

"Sorry," he says with a laugh, dropping the act. "But, really, Holly, it was my duty and my pleasure to stay up."

"Aww, shucks—you're making me blush."

"Isn't that my job?" he chuckles, and I can't help but chuckle back. It's been interesting, after our conversation in New York, and a subsequent (and secret) meeting later that week in his hotel room, deciding that our feelings should no longer be ignored and stifled. We haven't defined our relationship specifically, but it's clear that we have passed friendship somewhere along the line, and the new dynamic is interesting, new, and slightly nerve-wracking with every new day that comes.

"I suppose it is," I say simply, after a moment of consideration, and I smile a little as I imagine him, sitting somewhere in his parents' little cottage in the North of England, snow falling peacefully outside the window. A little shiver thrills me as I think that I'll be there with him before too long, and then my mind returns to the present. "Ben, I've got to go. I'll see you in—good Lord—seven hours."

"Try to sleep a little," he says with a low laugh.

I nod to myself, as though he's right next to me—his voice reaching out across the entire ocean to embrace my heart with its warmth—before answering, "I'll try."

* * *

And, though it's surprising to me, once I've situated myself into the extremely comfortable and private first-class seat (whose price, I have to keep reminding myself, was probably only the equivalent a drop in Benedict's monetary reserves), put some relaxing, instrumental music in my earbuds, I do end up dozing off.

Though it's not until I actually wake up again, at the end of the flight when the captain announces the beginning of our descent, that I realize I'd fallen asleep at all. My playlist has stopped and it's with a vague sense of coming out of a time-travel machine that I take my earbuds out and look out the window at a pure white landscape beneath the plane, lit up by the sun of seven in the morning, England's time.

But despite the oddness of the jetlag, I feel rested enough, and I have to keep myself from shivering with intense excitement at the prospect of finally seeing Ben again, as I get off the plane and work my way through the airport towards the baggage claim.

But my sudden high of excitement is disrupted when, after I've been waiting for ten minutes, and I notice that most of the other people I'd seen getting on and off of my flight have already retrieved their bags, I realize that my suitcase is simply not going to show up. If anything, I feel relief that I'd brought Ben's gift in my carry-on bag, but I still feel a little disappointed and concerned about my clothes: practically all the clothes I own had been in that suitcase, as Alex had made sure of... and now I feel a bit trapped...

I find my way to a support desk and ask for confirmation of my theory, which I receive quickly. It turns out, as the man behind the desk informs me tolerantly but tiredly, that my suitcase somehow found its way onto a different plane. He tells me that the bag's location should be discovered within twenty-four hours, once the other plane lands and the unclaimed suitcase is collected, and that, then, I'll be contacted regarding the next steps in reclaiming it. I thank the man for his help, and turn towards the elevator to get to where Ben will be waiting, deciding not to be disappointed—I've spent days in the same clothes before, and in much worse conditions—and I'm sure that I'll be able to get some other clothes to use while I'm here.

At the very moment I get into the elevator, my phone starts buzzing with a call from Benedict, and I answer it quickly. "You didn't get lost, did you?" he says with a joking tone. I check the time and swear softly to myself when I realize that it's been almost half an hour since my flight arrived; I hope he hasn't been worrying.

"No," I tell him, "but my suitcase did."

"Oh," he says, sympathetically. "That's unfortunate."

"It's alright," I say, quickly brushing it off, not wanting to linger on it. "They're sure it just found its way onto the wrong plane; they'll be in touch once it's found. You haven't been waiting too long, have you?"

"No amount of time is too long, Holly," he says, sincerely. And with that, we fall back into our banter of seven hours ago, Ben congratulating me on the hours of sleep I accomplished. He keeps me company over the phone until I reach the sliding doors to the outside pick-up lane.

I shiver audibly as the blowing heat of the airport gives way suddenly to the freezing, wet cold of the outdoors, the sky a bright grey that makes me blink as my teeth immediately start to shatter.

"Hurry before you freeze!" Ben laughs. "I'm at the end, in the suspicious black hatchback."

"Duly noted," I say, my laugh taken up an octave by the all-consuming cold. My already-freezing eyes sweep the row of cars, people getting in and out of them, kissing loved ones hello and goodbye. "I see you," I tell him after a second, and then hang up, hurrying at what can only be described as a prancing jog towards his car.

When I reach him, I make a funny face at him through the passenger side window before he unlocks the door with comic, torturous slowness and I get in, sighing in relief at the heat blasting from the vents. Before I can say a thing, and before I've even had a chance to set my backpack down between my knees on the floor, he's reached over, wrapped his hand gently around the back of my neck, and pulled me towards him, our lips meeting in the middle with a sudden tenderness that makes me gasp lightly into his mouth.

A moment passes between us in which time seems to stutter and then start again, but more slowly than before—it's only him and me in the warmth of the car, the engine humming underneath us. I'm immersed in the gentle, probing passion of his soft lips, and in the comfortable feeling of slow-growing confidence in my own. I'm reminded of just how much I'd missed the feeling of his hands, and now, there's none of the overly-cautious tension which had plagued our interactions over our summer together in his apartment. Slowly, he removes his other hand from the steering wheel and brushes his thumb over my temple with the perfect amount of pressure, his lips pressing deeper into my own, my mouth loosening at the feeling, a light sound of pleasure elicited by his actions and the warm feeling of honey they inspire in my lower zone...

Suddenly I'm jolted out of the silent intimacy of the moment and I remember who I am again, and who he is... and half out of the fear that I'm going to wake up from a dream when I pull away, and half out of the fear that this is all too real, and that somebody will recognize him, I press a hand against his chest—and he pulls away in an instant, smiling impishly, making me wish for more, and grow warmer from his considerate nature.

"Mr. Cumberbatch," I say, breathless, after a moment, smiling at the close proximity of his face, and tentatively letting my fingertips trace the line of his cheekbone.

"Miss Whitaker," he says back, his voice low after our moment of indulgence, leaning into my touch gently and returning my curious smile.

Both of us chuckle a little bit, but he seems to understand the reason for my caution, drawing back slightly while still considering me, looking into my eyes with a literally devastating gentleness. I catch his lips in another light kiss, and then let go after a mere second, settling back in my seat before he has the chance to capture me again. We sit and consider each other a bit longer, before he pulls out of the lane and starts weaving his way onto the main road, the world opening up outside the windows as we get further from the airport, snow falling gently, delicately, from the sky. I can't help but look out the window, my face nearly pressed against the glass, at the pure-white sight—this is nothing like the dirty, grimy, sleet-like snow I always experienced in New Jersey growing up, and later, the even more grimy snow in New York.

Before too long we're going through a tiny town, each building beautiful, with dark wood cutting across cream-white stucco—a postcard-worthy place, which reminds me of something out of an idyllic Robert Frost poem, or a fairy tale. A small main street, lit by fairy-lights and lamps, the shop windows illuminated and colorful against the falling snow, is host to people walking in groups, carrying bags, holding hands with one another. In a white-blanketed yard sporting an excellent snowman a few streets away, kids have a snowball fight, hiding behind barricades built up out of the snow, their shouts crisp and joyful in the air. I breathe out against the glass of the window, thrilled by the peaceful, innocent piece of world just beyond, and turn to look at Benedict in wonder: he smiles at me, a content awareness in his eyes.

Just beyond the main part of the town along a quiet, still road (lined on one side by a crumbling stone fence and on the other side by snow-covered hedges), is his parents' house: a beautiful, medium-sized clapboard one, a stunning old-fashioned charm summed up by the windows and a wreath of real red holly branches on the white front door.

"For you," says Ben, gesturing to it once we've gotten out of the car. "Dad and I said it was cheesy but Mom insisted."

I grin and lean against the strong arm he holds out to me, shivering but glad of the chill as we shuffle through the light dusting of snow on the shoveled-out path to the front door. "I love it," I tell him, admiring the fullness of the berries that bear my name.

Before we can reach the front door, however, still walking up the steps, it's opened by someone inside and I feel my breath catch in reaction to my nerves. Ben holds my arm tightly, increasing the pressure of his hand in support, and I lean further into him, feeling my ankles weaken in anxiety as the door opens further to reveal both of his parents, standing side by side, in the warmly lit doorway—his mother's hands clasped together, and his father's arm around her shoulders, both of their faces bright and welcoming with anticipation.

"Oh, Holly!" says his mother, opening the door wider and inviting Ben and I inside (he has to practically lift me over the threshold), embracing me immediately. For a second I stiffen on instinct, but almost instantly the warmth and might of her embrace helps me to loosen, and I feel as though—for whatever reason—I've just walked into the arms of someone I've known for a very long time. She kisses me gently on the cheek, and then releases me, smiling broadly. "Call me Wendy, dear. We've been so looking forward to finally seeing your lovely face."

I feel my cheeks grow warm at her kindness and I feel, inexplicably as though I might cry. Ben's father turns to me, as well, extending a hand in greeting, which I take, before he, too, pulls me into a comfortable hug. "Call me Tim, dear heart. Ben can't stop talking about you, and now we can see why." He gives Ben a cheeky grin, and Ben returns it with a sarcastic roll of his eyes, giving me a look that makes me laugh.

"Dad!" he says in a mock-whisper, and the two of them chuckle; instantly, I feel inducted into the comfortable circle of their companionship, and I can't stop smiling as I'm led through the main floor of the house, being showered with greetings and hospitality until, after a series of movements and laughs, Benedict planting a gentle kiss on the top of my head once to playfully tease my height, I'm settled on the couch in the comfortable, warm living room, before a beautifully decorated Christmas tree, with Ben just beside me, Wendy and Tim on the loveseat across from us, and a tray of food on the table which I gratefully take from—I'm terribly hungry after seven hours of dozing on and off in the plane.

I settle into a natural comfort with the two of them very quickly, to my great relief, and also (I can tell) to Benedict's. Tim is the one to first note that I've come in without a suitcase, and Ben and I share the task of relating the baggage accident to them, in response to which Wendy tells me that she's sure she has some spare clothes that will fit me well for the duration of the stay. No explicit questions are asked about the state of the relationship between myself and Ben, but a general curiosity about us is clear in the way they inquire—sensitively—into my personal goals... and the way they shower both Ben and I with complements that make both of us simultaneously shrink in humility and swell in silent appreciation in our separate ways.

I'm endlessly grateful that Benedict has had such a good childhood—which I can tell is the case without a doubt, simply from the easygoing interaction between himself and his parents, the warmth tying them all together, and extending so effortlessly to me. And in some magical way, I feel that, despite my own lack of steadiness and love in my own younger years, I'm getting a little bit of that, now, belatedly—and I feel myself warm with appreciation at the knowledge.

After questions and answers have been exchanged, and a general warmth and comfort has been established between the four of us, Wendy takes me up to the guest room I'll be staying in, and sets me up with some clothes to wear. "Most of these," she says, rifling through the drawers of a dresser in the room, "are old pieces I kept from my younger years, for the memories. They're certainly not what people your age would consider 'hip,' I'm afraid..."

But though Wendy is a bit taller than me, her past self's size matches mine well, and I happen to enjoy the clothes very much: they fit me well, they're from another time, they're extremely warm, and I can feel the stories in them when I put them on. I thank her profusely for allowing me to wear them, as I can tell they're precious to her, and I change out of the airplane clothes and into a pair of comfortable, loose jeans, and a comfortable and warm black long-sleeved shirt that isn't too tight.

When we come back downstairs, Tim has left and is making some clinking sounds with pots and pans in the kitchen, and Benedict is standing by the beginnings of a fire in the wide fireplace, a hand on the mantle.

"Look at you!" he says with a chuckle, bringing me into a warm hug which I never want to leave—and which, I realize, I don't have to leave, especially after Wendy has slipped away to join her husband in the kitchen. But, after a minute, Ben pulls back slightly, a mischievous angle in his eyebrow, and I can't help but bask in his warmth and smile as he says with a lilt of boyish excitement, "Are you ready to go on an adventure?"

* * *

"Ben, where are we going?!" I say for the umpteenth time, almost out of breath trying to keep up with his strides as we cross a crisp, untouched field of snow.

We've walked for an hour through the village and then out to a barren field covered in snow, sometimes at a careful distance from each other, sometimes hand in hand—the latter, now that we're the only ones in sight, and the falling snow shields us from view. I'm covered in coats—one of his mother's and one of Ben's own, which dwarfs me—and heavy boots, a little too big for my fairy feet. Ben looks not dissimilar to Sherlock in a long black coat and boots, scarf and hat, his cheeks a light red in the cold, and his eyes squinting with joy. I'm free, now, as I hadn't been last summer, to revel in his appearance, to be slightly intimidated by, but not afraid of, his body.

I'm caught looking at his profile against the grey wall of snowflakes again, and my ankle slips suddenly, causing me to yelp and stumble into his side. He catches me, and I laugh, the freezing, wet flakes stinging my cheeks pleasantly. "This is unfair; your legs are too long!" I say with a sniffle, pulling myself up and taking his hand again.

"We're almost there!" he says, helping to drag me along—the snow is so deep that even he has to pick his knees up further than usual, and I'm practically lost trying to plow myself through the white depths at his side—but it's an enjoyable, almost nostalgic struggle.

A minute or so of stumbling and laughing later, we make it through the bulk of the field, and the shape of a huddled, snow-cloaked wall (waist high for him, and up to the base of my ribcage) emerges out of the flurrying snowflakes. As soon as we make our way to it, he stops and announces, with a ringmaster's voice, "Ta-da!" looking at me joyously, eyes bright with expectance.

I puzzle for a moment, looking up and down the wall, stretching off to both sides over the snowy terrain as far as the eye can see through the snow. And then, after another beat, I look up at him, feeling my face widen in surprise as I piece together the landmark with our location. "This is Hadrian's wall!" I exclaim, excited beyond belief by being right beside such an intriguing historical landmark, which I'd previously thought I would only ever read about.

He confirms my knowledge and for the next quarter of an hour we walk alongside it, packing down the fresh snow under our boots, our laughter ringing through the air as we piece together the lyrics of Christmas carols we remember, singing them stuffily through inevitably-developing colds. Soon enough we both have snow in our boots and set about turning from the guidance of the wall, going back over the snow-covered field in the direction from where we'd come. The snow is so thick that I'm afraid to let go of Ben, and he holds onto me tightly, in turn, seeming to be thinking the same thing. For a few minutes, we make slightly on-edge jokes about getting lost and not finding our way back, but we get back to the main path easily enough, and then walk back through the heavenly-smelling evergreen woods until we reach the warmly lit little village.

Ben takes me into a series of little shops, buying us Christmas chocolates, once coaxing me to close my eyes while he sets a small, delicious truffle on my tongue, and seals the gift with a short, soft kiss. There's no worry on either of our parts about being spotted; everyone is altogether too absorbed in their own lives and companions to be on the lookout for him, and, as a precaution, I'm the one to go up to the cashier and pay whenever we choose to buy something. He always insists that he pays, and it would be difficult enough for me to argue even if I still hadn't had my dollars converted to euros, and if most of the shops didn't require payment in paper money.

"What do your parents like?" I ask him, when we're in a nice shop with some affordable little gifts, which also takes credit cards. Initially, I hadn't bought anything for his mom and dad along with the present I got Ben, not knowing their tastes, but it feels wrong, now, not to at least give them a small token of my deep appreciation.

"Nothing," he says in answer to my question, completely genuine. "They can't stand presents unless it's from each other. Besides, they'd never forgive me for letting you buy them something."

"Not even a card?" I protest, slowly moving around the rotating stand of beautiful paper Christmas cards I've been considering for the past minute.

"That might be acceptable," he says with an endearing chuckle, "but I still wouldn't risk it." I frown a little, wondering if, perhaps, it's the fact of my being from the United States that prevents me from understanding, and getting a little embarrassed at the possibility: Alex, for example, always expects gifts on special days. "Holly-" Ben says with a laugh, noticing my anxiety and placing his hands comfortingly on my shoulders. "They've been on the edge of their seats all month long, just to have your company. Your presence is your gift to them, as it is to me."

I sigh in mock dejection, turning out of his touch and placing a pretty card with a delicate painting of a robin on the front back onto the stand, hiding a smirk from him, hoping he'll be surprised by his gift. I agree not to get anything for his parents, though I still feel a little odd about it. But by the time we've strolled through every shop in town sipping from cups of hot chocolate, the little debacle around gift-giving is completely forgotten.

After our day together, around four in the evening, we walk our way back out of the village and down the snowy road to the beautiful clapboard house. Now, it's dark enough outside that there have been candles lit in every window of the house, and a delicate frost has adorned the red berries on the front-door wreath.

Our noses start running as soon as the warmth of the house hits us, and Wendy is prepared in the entryway with a tissue box, which she holds out to us once we've gotten our coats and boots off, our faces still smiling and red from the excursions of the day.

"Just like the old days, Benedict," says Wendy with a smile. "But you had better not have gotten Holly sick, or I'll have to have a word with you."

"Take it easy on the poor youngsters!" says Tim with a laugh, from behind her, giving me a secret wink that makes me grin too widely for my face.

But before too long, the sniffles pass for us both, anyway, and I go into the kitchen with Wendy to help put the finishing touches on her elaborate Christmas Eve dinner, while Ben and his father strengthen the fire, set the table, and light candles all around the main room, as well as placing some in special holders on the tree itself.

During the meal—for which Wendy and Tim sit on one side of the beautiful, glittering table, and Ben and I sit together on the other side—I eat very little in comparison to the others. I've never needed much food, and certainly not as much as people in the United States usually consume, and I'm slightly nervous that my appetite might give Ben's parents a bad idea about me. But they seem not to mind, or, really, even to noticed, they're too engrossed in the conversation between the four of us. I take a bit of everything to be respectful, and enjoy it all, reveling in the stories behind some of the dishes, long traditions in their family, and extremely nostalgic for Ben. He gives me a quiet, knowing smile and nudges me under the table with his knee when I try to mimic their European table manners, and we chuckle softly to ourselves, faces aglow in the warming light of all the candles.

Once we've all four worked together to wash and dry the dishes by hand, settling them away into their separate cabinets with a satisfying chorus of clinks, we move into the living room. Ben tasks himself with putting on a CD of acapella choral music, sung by young boys' choirs. "There was going to be a Christmas service in the next town over," explains Wendy to me, "but half of the boys came down with something, so it was canceled. This should suffice. Tim, sweetheart-" she leans over to where he sits next to her on their loveseat, placing a gentle hand on his knee, "do you remember when we bought those CDs in London?"

"Oh, yes," says Tim, looking pleasantly across the room, absorbed in memory, "when was that, back in '87, wasn't it?"

I look at them with a serene feeling in my heart, completely at peace seeing them enveloped in the warmth of their past together, their souls so clearly at peace and in perfect happiness together. Benedict casts me a meaningful expression across the room as the CD starts to play, warm music streaming though the speakers at a comfortable background volume, and I can tell that he feels the same way I do, in deep appreciation of his parents' wonderful bond.

Ben joins me on the loveseat opposite Wendy and Tim's, and we gather closely and comfortably around the fireplace. Before too long, Wendy and Tom have lapsed into a pleasant pattern of reminiscing over old Christmas stories, which Ben sometimes stars in, and both Ben and I listen and look on with bright eyes, glad to hear them so happy and content. Ben shares a few funny stories of his own, centering around his first Christmases spent away from home in his late teens and early twenties, and stupid things he got up to with friends.

I get a vague feeling as the evening wears on into night and the night grows later, the flecks of snow dissolving into a pure blackness, in motion outside the window panes, that they don't ask me to tell any of my own stories, because Ben has probably let them on in some respect to the difficulty of my childhood. There's no awkwardness around it, either, and I'm grateful: most of my Christmases hold memories of being stuck in freezing rooms with my drunk and violent father, or in soup kitchens, or, on a few lucky occasions I can remember, with a Christmas cookie given out by caroling strangers. I'm beyond grateful that, now, I've been invited into this incredible warmth, the comfortable closeness of their own Christmas traditions. I feel incredibly honored, and especially happy, almost sedated, with the feeling of Ben, inviting me to lean into him, wrapping an arm around me with a firm gentleness.

When it's gotten very late, just over an hour shy of midnight, we resurface from the past and realize how lost we'd gotten in the stories, and we all begin to yawn, deciding that, now that the fire had dwindled, we had better be off to bed. Ben is the first to retire to his room, bidding me farewell with a kiss on the forehead and a close hug—though I know he would have kissed me on the lips if his parents hadn't been so near. Wendy goes upstairs second, inviting me to join her to pick out some nightclothes for myself, once Tim and I have finished snuffing out all the candles around the room. He has a quiet, aging way about him which is very pleasant, and it's perfectly natural and expected when, once we've finished and ascended the stairs into the second floor, where everyone's bedrooms are, he pulls me into a light hug and tells me he's very, very glad that Ben found me. I thank him with my cheeks and heart warmed by his words, and he leaves to go into the room he shares with Wendy, leaving me in the hall to shuffle down towards the guest room.

But before I can reach the guest room door, I hear a low whistle from the doorway to the bathroom just across the hall, and turn on instinct in direction to the sound. Ben's standing there, leaning against the jamb with his arms crossed and a mischievous smile on his dimly lit face. "What are you up to, now?" I question with a laugh, at the look on his face.

Without saying a word he steps aside slightly from the door and extends a hand, and I look into the bathroom to see the old-fashioned Victorian bathtub filled with perfectly warm water, a candelabra of three candles set beside it, and some perfectly soft nightclothes in my size folded on the counter. I smile and draw in a light gasp of surprise at the sight, and turn to him with a barely-contained look of exasperation—he is doing entirely too much for me—he is entirely too good of a person to be allowed.

"You drew a bath for me?" I ask rhetorically, in gentle surprise.

He shrugs his shoulders a little, and I can't help noticing how powerful but soft and comfortable his body looks beneath the soft, worn fabric of his Henley shirt. He steps closer to me, brushing his fingertips over my smiling lips, and then he does what he couldn't do downstairs because his parents were watching: He leans down slightly to catch my lips with his. To accommodate his height I have to go up on my tip-toes slightly, and tilt my head up and back, so that the very act of kissing him is like a complete surrender—a surrender which, in this case, I don't mind at all.

He pulls away almost painfully, just before we can cross into more dangerous territory, and draws my small body to his, his hand pressing against my back, the warmth of his chest making me feel as though I could stay this way—my cheek leaned against him, resting on him and feeling weightless—for hours on end without tiring of it.

"Keep warm tonight," he says after another minute, pulling away and punctuating the point he's trying to make inadvertently, the loss of his body heat making me shiver slightly already. "It gets drafty up here in the winter." He stands in the doorway for a moment, and seems to debate internally whether or not to take my mouth upon his once more—but eventually he leaves without doing so, giving me a little wave and a nod, which I return, blowing him a kiss before he closes around the door, leaving me in the chill of the bathroom, the candle flames wavering with the change of pressure at his sudden absence.

I hurry in taking off my clothes, letting them lie in a heap on the cold floorboards and stepping into the marvelously warm bath, sinking down into it with a sigh—the water made all the more warm by the knowledge that Benedict's hands are the ones who prepared it for me, with such consideration. The scar of the bullet wound I got on the first day I came in contact with Ben reacts differently to the warm water than the rest of my skin; and it stings for a moment, releasing the feeling of crawling, before it mellows and becomes almost numb, letting the wince on my face relax into a pure bliss. I'm so tired that, after washing myself with a bar of gentle lavender soap, and then relaxing without movement for a minute, I almost fall asleep.

It's purely to keep myself from dozing off and inhaling water that I finally get out, likely a whole half hour after I'd gotten in. I shiver audibly at the feeling of the freezing air, and am quick in draining the tub, drying off and dressing in the perfect warm and soft pajamas. I blow out the candles and then hurry silently across the hallway and into the guest room—not without noticing the ribbon of lamplight sneaking out from under Ben's door at the end of the hall. I close my own door as silently as I can, and then go over to the window pane, looking out on the breathtaking, snowy landscape, and almost crying with the hospitality I've been shown, and the exhaustion that plagues my body after such a long and energetic day.

But, though I am very tired, and trembling on my feet, as soon as I tuck myself into the warm, comfortable bed, I still cannot fall asleep. My body doesn't relax or melt instantly into the plush mattress as I'd expected it would—and I don't have to spend long wondering why this is the case.

It's the pressing thought of that band of light I'd seen under Benedict's door, like a silent invitation, which reveals the truth of my heart to me so quickly. The feeling of his hands when he'd hugged me good night, his wish for me to stay warm... and I realize, all at once, and without any real surprise, that I love him.

I've never loved anyone before, but it's not a feeling one has to learn, and I simply, truly, know. It's a simple, undiluted fact, not burdened by any girlish jitters, the way I'd (foolishly) felt when I'd once had a crush on an older boy in school before realizing the hopelessness of a relationship with anyone ever working in my favor... All that I feel, now, is a sensation of warm honey, spreading fluidly through my entire body, making my toes tingle and my brain fuzz over with a warm, confident clarity—it's all so adult-like, and I feel more sure of myself than I ever have been, at any other time in my life. In addition, there's no question of whether or not to wait to tell him; it's something that needs to be said, and something that seems natural to say between the two of us—something that seems even dangerous to leave waiting for too long.

So within the next minute, after a few seconds of necessary procrastination, given the hour of the night—though, probably, it's already early morning by now—I'm up and out of bed again, going very quietly across the wooden floorboards and opening my door to the freezing hallway. But my body doesn't shiver as I cross to Ben's door, and I tap twice softly on it before opening it a crack, peeking in.

He's still sitting up in his bed, reading by the light of the lamp which had also created the ribbon of warmth beneath the door as viewed from the hall. At the sound of my entrance he looks up from his book and smiles, as though this had been a silent hope of his, as though he'd been expecting this, and that this had already been planned silently between the two of us for a long time beforehand. I stand in the doorway with a sudden feeling of nervousness which doesn't match up with the feeling of bravery I'd been armored with in the guest bedroom. But under his gaze, I also feel a new longing, and without thinking too much—which is a wonderful feeling, since I know, also, that with him, I am unquestionably safe—I step further into the room, and listen to myself say, "May I join you?"

In reaction to the question, to my half-relief and half-horror, Ben smiles and raises a sarcastically suggestive eyebrow, the enticing casualness of his body beneath his white, heavenly-looking blankets making his point clear. Not to... do anything," I say quickly, amending my initial question.

But he shakes his head quickly in understanding, chuckling lightly and looking at me warningly. "I was giving you a hard time," he says, his voice light and deep as usual, but softened slightly in the case that his parents have fallen asleep. "Close the door and come here," he says, motioning to the place in bed beside him, left open as though on purpose, his eyes warm and promising further warmth beyond them. "I would love to share a bed with you."

I smile at his wording, and do close the door again, as silently as I can, given the slight creak in the aging hinges, before padding across the cold hardwood panels and crawling up onto his bed, snuggling in under the covers, propping up a pillow close to him and leaning my head on his shoulder, which makes him smile.

"Ah..." I sigh instinctively once our sides have been pressed gently together underneath the cloud-like blankets. "You're warm."

"Your personal furnace since... Well, since ten seconds ago," he chuckles.

I turn to him with an air of mock sincerity and joke, my voice deadpan: "Benedict, you REALLY should have gone into advertising." He chuckles at me and presses his lips to the top of my head in what is shaping up to be an adorable habit that I could get used to—that, honestly, I already am used to. I smile at him and then shift my cheek against his shoulder again, gesturing with my chin to the stack of papers he's holding, and had been studying before I came in, not looking too pointedly at them in case they're something private.

"Sorry if I interrupted you," I say, a little guiltily. "What are you reading?"

In keeping with my suspicions, he quickly turns them over and places them on the bedside table face-down, making a mysterious face at me and saying lowly, "It's a secret." I look up at him with a smile, my face relaxing completely under the calming power of his eyes, and he bends down to kiss me on the lips.

But, though it takes a great amount of determination on my part, I pull away slightly and press a finger to his lips before he can make contact with my mouth. "Benedict?" I say to him, my voice lacking the strength I'd imagined it might have, but still capturing his attention effectively. He considers my face, imploring me to go on with his eyes, and I look into them, exhaling with a light shudder before saying, simply (though, really, not simply), "I love you."

A moment of silence and nothingness exists between us, as though the universe has exhaled a bit of its precious magic inside this room. Then the moment shatters into something sweeter, something entirely human, and he smiles at my words. Given confidence by the tenderness and joyful relief in his eyes, I lean forward slightly, preparing to give him the kiss I'd denied a moment earlier.

But, this time, it's his turn to stop me, placing two of his long, tapered fingers against my lips and smiling, saying, with his voice like the most luscious embrace, "Holly?"

I nod my head yes—yes, yes, yes... And he smiles his own smile, as I had done a moment ago, before saying, as though it's never been said before in the entire history of the world, "I love you."

And then, at last, our lips—and our hearts—are held apart no longer.

* * *

**Benedict**

When I wake up she's still in my arms, the subtle scent of lavender from her bath last night coming gently from her neck. I lay there, still and silent, as though still in a dream, and look at the way her hair lays over her shoulder, the gentle curve of her small body molded to mine, the steady rise and fall of her breath. For a moment I shut my eyes again, wishing myself back into that state of perfect quietness, but I know that I won't be able to fall back to sleep, so I remain awake, still and quiet, listening to her breath, smiling cautiously at the warmth and comfort of her close, compact presence.

The coldness of the morning (light comes through the thin window-pane, also illuminating the fields of snow outside, a few flakes falling spaciously from the white sky) hovers around us, but we are in our own perfect warm huddle together, as we have been all night.

My parents, as usual, have woken up earlier than I—even earlier, now, as I'm sure I slept longer and better last night for Holly's presence in my bed—and it is the sound of them downstairs in the kitchen which finally wakes her up: with a slight shudder of awareness that seizes her body for a moment before letting it go again. The moment after she stiffens, she relaxes completely into me, sighing gently and shifting her arm across her side, seeking out my hand, finding it and squeezing it gently with her warm fingers.

"Merry Christmas, sleepyhead," I tease through my smile, squeezing her hand, in return and wrapping my arm around her waist, pulling her carefully to me, mindful of her scars, healed bones and psychological wounds as I do so.

But it's still so early, and she's slightly groggy, so she doesn't pick up on my sarcasm, and seems genuinely worried when she says sleepily, "Oh, no—how long have you been up alone?"

I plant a kiss on the back of her neck and put my other arm around her, too, bringing her closer, still, to warm and pacify her. "Just a minute or two."

After another minute in bed in the quiet of the morning, becoming more and more aware of the cold just beyond the comfortable confines of our bodies, we force ourselves to leave the shelter of the blankets, and hurry downstairs, keeping close to each other's bodies to keep warm.

There's a relaxed slowness to the morning routine; a fire has already been made up in the fireplace, giving us relief downstairs, and Mum and Dad wish us both a Merry Christmas day, their embraces warming us both up in no time. They seem to know—as they always seem to know everything, especially when I try to hide it—that something was exchanged between Holly and I last night that they didn't bear witness to. And when Holly's back is turned, I flash them a meaningful look, in which it is communicated efficiently that there was no sexual intimacy between us—and this seems to relieve them a bit, though I know that there will still be a thorough questioning later, when we are alone.

After eating and clearing away the breakfast we all prepared together, I excuse myself and go upstairs to retrieve the present I bought for Holly, bringing it back down as Mum and Dad are starting to exchange their own personal presents to each other on the couch. Holly is engrossed in their kindness and the love they share, looking on warmly as their personal and special gifts are tenderly exchanged. It's only once they've finished that her attention breaks and she looks to me, noticing the brown-paper wrapped parcel for the first time. I start to hand it to her but the stiff and amused look on her face stops me. "You hypocrite!" she says, a lilt of pure joy in her voice, before excusing herself, continuing, in the same tone, "Wait a minute," and running upstairs, returning shortly with a wrapped package of her own.

Now its Mum and Dad's turn to look on as we exchange gifts, too—our first.

I'm extremely surprised—and very pleasantly so, too—when I pull back the paper to find what Holly quickly informs me is the precise copy of Hamlet that Mark Whishaw studied for the 1972 production of Hamlet. My parents are both impressed by this, too, and there's a short anecdote shared by them both—they'd happened to attend that exact performance with each other in London, just four years before I was born.

After another minute of beating around the bush, Holly finally accepts my own papered parcel into her hands and opens it with the utmost care, as though the paper itself is infinitely precious. Once she's gotten it open, she sits there and stares, speechless, for a few long seconds, before putting her hand over her mouth and looking up at me—literally, with tears welling in her giant eyes. My parents look at me proudly and with a hint of approving mischief in their eyes, as Holly picks up the book—a first printing edition of her favorite novel, Great Expectations, printed in the year 1861—and flips carefully through each page.

The book, I'm just starting to realize, is her personal equivalent of a holy relic. And she looks up at me a second time as though I am the head prophet of her sacred religion. For a few seconds, watching the disbelief play across her face, I feel my body tense up with a sudden fear that I've intimidated her, that it was too extreme a decision, that I should have gone for something more tame. But quickly I understand that, though the fact of the gift is unbelievable to her, she's still absolutely over the moon.

"This is the definition of insanity, Ben," are the first words out of her mouth, making both my parents chuckle good-naturedly on the loveseat across from ours. She stutters for a second, shaking her head to herself, and finally managing, with a slight squeak of nervousness in her tone, "This must have cost two fortunes."

"Oh, no, I found it for next to nothing at an estate sale in London," I say, half-lying, quickly dismissing the subject, nonetheless, making her smirk widely and administer a playful smack to my arm as she continues to look down at the book, eyes welling in the purest version of wonder.

Shortly after, Holly goes up to her room to put Great Expectations in a safe place, and get dressed for the day. While she's gone, my parents take advantage of our solitude, as I'd known to expect, and I answer all their probing questions truthfully, telling them of the development which took place just last night, to which they respond with tender smiles, looking at me gently, and then looking at each other, seeming to revel silently in times gone by, recalling the simple beginnings of their own lifelong saga of love. I feel, sitting across from them, as though I'm staring into the face of what could be my future... but I don't want to get too giddy or ahead of myself.

Around lunchtime, Tom video-calls, catching Holly and I off-guard where we'd been sitting, leaning against each other, on the comfortable rug near the fireplace. "The two of you are NOT about to make me jealous," he says, catching Holly's head on my shoulder just before she moves it out of modesty and surprise. He's wearing a bizarre santa hat and his glasses, sitting on the couch in his London apartment, a cheerful smile plastered on his face. "Look at my wonderful cuddle companion... C'mere..." And both Holly and I make the appropriate sounds of endearment as his dog joins him in the frame. He presses his face into the dog's, and makes a point of sticking his tongue out at us before setting him down again. "It's wonderful to see you again, Holly!"

"Lovely to see you, too, Mr. Hiddleston," she responds, a slightly sly note in her voice.

At this, Tom dons a facial expression of mock despair and says with a wince of half-worry, "I knew it would only be so long before you found me out."

"A friend of mine," she explains, being admirably easy-going, "took me to see Crimson Peak in October—it was very good by the way-and I was rather startled when I recognized you. I'm sorry if I offended you back in London with my unawareness."

Tom shakes his head instantly, and I can tell he's flattered and impressed by her politeness and considerate nature. He smiles back at her, making sure to assure her of her faultlessness, before she excuses herself, leaving us to talk in private while she hurries off to help my parents with something. I tell him about the exquisitely special copy of Hamlet she gave me, and he takes this as evidence that she knows me quite well already, which I can't deny I believe, too, is true. Over the past months, Holly has come up frequently in our conversations together, and he asks me once more how things are going now that we've met in person again. I inform him of everything, and am bolstered by the knowledge of his happiness for me and my situation. He tells me he hopes things will continue to work out, and that whatever is the best thing for both of us will be the thing that happens.

Holly, too, gets on the phone a bit later, in the living room, reaching out first to Alexandra who, as I understand it, has left Columbia and is staying with her family for the holidays. I overhear her talking while I help Mum in the kitchen: "We walked along Hadrian's wall, Alex! ...I'm not a nerd, I'm just a person with a healthy appreciation for history which, sadly, most of my generation-my best friend included—has lost. No offense... I know you're champing at the bit to get to the theater for that new Tarantino movie... yeah, yeah... Mm-hmm... I'll be waiting eagerly for a minute-by-minute analysis of all that blood and gore... Of course, I'm joking, Alex, you know I can't stand that stuff... Okay... You, too... Bye!"

Her next phone conversation is much more somber, much shorter and less friendly, and it seems like something that takes a lot out of her because, when I go back out to sit with her, she looks very drained, but still satisfied. When I ask her who she'd spoken to, she tells me it was her Aunt, and that she'd felt the need to call and check on her after a long period of silence between them. The woman had taken her in after she'd run away from her father's clutches, and that had meant the world, even if she had been constantly in and out of rehab for alcoholism, and an extremely strict and envious woman. In one of our powerful moments of emotional intimacy, Holly tells me in confidence that she no longer feels the need to forget everything about her past—she is beginning to harvest pieces that were positive and strengthened her for the better, even if they were few, and beginning to try to appreciate them, even if most of her first seventeen years of life were pure hell. And for these efforts; for her extreme strength of heart and mind, I admire her endlessly.

* * *

My parents and I revel in Holly's company through the New year and until the seventh of January; she has to be back at school for the spring semester of her Sophomore year on the eleventh.

During those precious winter days, she and I continue to sleep in the same bed, and to fall deeper into each other, keeping our inherent lightness and love around us, but not being afraid to question ourselves—in the safety of each other's company.

We talk about the dangers of our closeness: the difference between our ages, the fact that we live across the ocean from each other, the fact of my profession and what comes with it, the fact that she is still coming up in the world and discovering herself and her capabilities as an individual.

But in the end we decide that we can see no reason to avoid the more important emotional bond which has formed so quickly and so deeply, and decide to keep going with it, and see where it goes—but tentatively—for we do realize that we really, really care for each other, and can also have fun, which is of great importance to us both.

With her, I feel different than I've felt with anyone else in my life, and it's a marvelous difference, too. There's an inherent safety in her arms, and the warmth that fills my heart when she tells me she feels safe with me, in turn, is unsurpassable.

We go out to the village a few more times before the day of her departure, go on more walks along Northumberland's stretch of Hadrian's wall-which she can't get enough of—and read to each other in the nights, before falling asleep, her back pressed to my chest, the warmth of our breath congealing into a forcefield against the rest of the world.

So, it's all the more devastating when, on the evening of the seventh, she has to leave. She says goodbye to my parents, Mum failing to hide her tears, and they promise to meet her again soon, the next time she and I can see each other, likely in London-which is where they also live during most of the year. I drive her to the airport, both of us keeping up conversation for the duration of the snowy ride, to keep from falling into a quiet, pensive sadness.

In the front of the airport I get out of the car to give her one final, tight embrace, before I'm required to let her go, watching her walk through the sliding glass doors, waving at me once more from beyond before going out of sight. I get back in the car for the sake of caution, and sit there for a while, considering that this feeling of potential loss will have to become normal if we continue on our path of togetherness, before driving back to my parents' house, my body already beginning to ache in a bittersweet way from her absence.

* * *

**Holly**

I get off the airplane in a daze, having not been able to sleep, this time, for the loss of Benedict's presence, which I've grown so dangerously, helplessly accustomed to over our precious days together. There's still no suitcase to claim—there's been no news of its whereabouts yet—so I pass through the airport and out into the polluted New York air with only my carry-on backpack. I hail a cab, still in the same daze, my heart heavy with a hint of depression at my sudden, harsh loss.

I'm so dazed, in fact, that it's not until I'm halfway to the Columbia dorms in the taxi, that I realize I'd forgotten to take my phone off airplane mode. I set about doing it, belatedly, hoping that I haven't made either Benedict or Alexandra worried by the mistake. But the moment I turn airplane mode off, my phone suddenly receives an entire storm of messages and missed call / voicemail alerts—and I can't help but be both startled and panicked by all the buzzing, certain that something must have gone terribly wrong over the seven hours I'd been in the sky.

And I soon find out, once the storm has stopped and I can open my messages and actually read them, this is actually the case. I get the gist quickly from Alex's messages (which are more explicit about what has actually happened, than Ben's more vague requests for me to call him as soon as I can, for me to avoid panicking), and I decide to call her, first, considering the time in England. She answers before the first ring has even come to an end.

"Did you see it yet?" she says, her voice stinging my already inflamed panic, which has actual tears of worry and confusion pricking at my eyes.

"No, I just read your messages-"

"Look it up, right now, Holly." I know from the worried tone of her voice that this is not something to joke about, and I do, looking up Benedict's name in the google search bar. And, to my dismay, the first thing to show up, is a series of latest articles, all centering around a group of photographs taken just seven hours ago at the airport in Northumberland, of Benedict and I sitting inside his car, standing and embracing outside of it. "The entire internet is having a field day over it," Alex says, almost in narration as I flip through article after article, dramatic headings and captions staring off the screen at me, everyone trying to figure out the identity of the young woman who appears to be so intimate with none other than the famous actor Benedict Cumberbatch.

"Oh, my God," I say, finding it hard to breathe. I can't stop scrolling, and scrolling, all the blood seeming to suddenly leave my body as I realize that being with Benedict is going to be much, much harder than I thought. That something like this has happened so immediately and on such a great scale is terrifying to me.

"Holly, please don't hyperventilate. We're going to figure this out, okay? You'll get back safe, and then, we'll call Benedict, and figure out where to go from here..." But she trails off, understanding the futility of reason in a situation like this, so unfamiliar to us both, so terrifying, so easily thrusting me into an entirely new territory—a new identify.

"Alex," I hear myself say, feeling myself slowly turning to ice. "What on earth am I going to do?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, for it to be the winter Holidays! You know that really weird feeling you get when you watch a special Christmas episode of a show but it's actually high summer where you are? That's the feeling I got writing this—kind of weird, but DEFINITELY worth it!
> 
> Regarding Benedict's Christmas gift: I must confess that both the actor Mark Whishaw and the 1972 production of Hamlet are FICTIONAL—though Mark is the first name of one famous Hamlet, and Whishaw the last name of another, that is as true as that little part is going to get. Had to go through that little loophole for the sake of an interesting / special / personal holiday gift.
> 
> I am so, SO sorry for the delay on this chapter! I was in the car for eight hours on Wednesday, on my way to visit some relatives, and then had some personal family issues to sort out, as well as technical difficulties with the internet! I wanted to give you guys an extra-long chapter as a reward for your patience (thank you SO much, I am seriously SO sorry about this)—and after some chocolate ice cream (my version of caffeine) and way too many hours at the keyboard (seriously, at least ten hours all in all, you guys, oh my goodness gracious), here we are. I'm sure there were some horrendous typos in this chapter—please forgive those. I will be very busy over the next couple days, so I might not be updating every twenty-four hours, but don't worry! Things will mellow out soon, and then we will get back to business!
> 
> In the beginning of the chapter when Holly is worrying about meeting Ben's parents, she references a movie, "Meet the Parents." If you haven't seen it, it's absolutely hilarious and I would totally recommend it to anyone who has a slightly crude or cynical sense of humor... A man (Ben Stiller) goes to his girlfriend's parents' house for the first time, and, basically, everything goes to shit. In the best way possible.
> 
> ***Also, the Quentin Tarantino movie Alex is on her way to see is The Hateful Eight- another personal favorite, but definitely not for the weak-stomached! (Yikes).
> 
> I loved this chapter! How about you? How do you think Benedict and Holly are going to handle this new development?
> 
> Time to collapse in bed and finally get some sleep...
> 
> Une-papillon-de-nuit
> 
> 1 August, 2020


	12. Chapter 12: Renascence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holly grapples with the judgment of the press....

**Chapter 12: Renascence | Spring, 2016**

**Holly**

Three months pass at a rapid speed, spurred onward by equal parts anxiety and excitement. The media doesn't forget the photographs of Ben and I outside the Northumberland airport: various speculation pieces continue to be released from time to time, and whenever another article is written on Ben and his work, the pictures are usually mentioned at least vaguely. I walk down the streets of New York with a slight weight on my shoulders, terrified of being recognized by a die-hard fan—but it never happens, and a great relief resides in my chest at the knowledge of my safety.

On campus, however, it does seem as though a few people have recognized me from the gossip, but they don't give me a hard time about it, and don't even dare to approach and ask. Alex initially advised me that if I pretended like I had no idea about any of it, they would doubt their suspicions and ignore it. I'd taunted her playfully, "Okay, Miss Psychology major," as, after entering Freshman year undecided, she's finally settled on going into Clinical Psychology. But, truly the advice was helpful and worked perfectly. Still, it's unnerving to see those photographs of myself on the internet, so public, under such scrutiny.

I admit that I have tracked most of the articles written about them—one chain of comments left on the photos centers around an argument over who the "mystery girl" could be to Ben. Many people worry mostly over whether the "mystery girl" could be a love interest—those comments got old quickly and don't bother me much, even when they can get slightly mean and jealous. But one comment which I found, reacting to that majority, did disturb me thoroughly, even though it was one of the comments which, objectively, I might have otherwise considered the most considerate towards my privacy; by PerryWinkle-Batch on twitter: "You guys, we shouldn't be so obsessed over these pics! Look how young she is! I'm sure our bae was just having a young relative over for the holidays and treating her to a goodbye hug. Move on!"

Before too long, though, Ben and I have discussed the photographs and the resulting publicity, and the reality of our real relationship, separate from the gossip, along with the fact of my safety and the fact that my identity has yet to be exploited off the internet—have combined to help me become comfortable again, and to leave the photos in the past.

Benedict himself, though, I cannot leave in the past whatsoever—he is present completely, in my mind and body every day, though we are separated by an entire ocean of space, and suffer a seven hour difference in time zones. For the first week after returning from his parents house in England, I couldn't sleep at all, my body suddenly startled and upset by the loss of his presence in bed beside me. But even after I recovered from that initial difficulty, it continued to be difficult to go about my day without getting frequently lost in pondering thoughts surrounding him and us.

I try to keep my feelings under control, try to maintain the tightly-boxed control that I developed so carefully over my teenage years under the harsh conditions of that time in my life, under the regime of my father. But no matter how I try to suppress the conflicting emotions, the frightening desires, fears and feelings of hope, they keep slipping out of their boxes and floating around my mind at all hours.

In an effort to take my mind off him—though we still call every day and message even more frequently when our schedules don't allow much time on both ends—and to satisfy my sudden need for more human connection, I end up, in March, reuniting with my Aunt officially after our long separation. It is the true reunification to which my phone call to her on Christmas had been the prelude.

At first, we are both equally, extremely reluctant. It begins with a few more cautious, short phone calls, progresses with a visit to her at her apartment—tentatively, making no promises. But, soon, I begin meeting with her most days after or between classes. She's out of rehab again and doing very well—better than I've ever seen her before.

We begin quite quickly to connect and talk in a way that we never did before, when one of the worst times of her life coincided with my arrival. And when I'm in need of a get-away from campus—and, sometimes, from Alex, who has become much more social than ever, and is only growing into more of an extrovert, which I sometimes can't handle as gracefully as I wish I could—I take to going to study in my Aunt's kitchen.

The apartment holds some difficult memories of that struggling year after I moved in, working as a waitress in a seedy restaurant and also as a janitorial worker (there are still burned patches on my hands from the chemicals) in every kitchen and building I could find.

But, to my extremely relieved surprise, my Aunt sits me down one day in early April and apologizes tearfully, from the bottom of her heart, for her lack of initial hospitality. And from thereon out, it is surprisingly easy for us to really mend, and my emotional loss of Ben's consistent presence is aided extremely by her companionship, and the knowledge that points which have so long been difficult between my Aunt and I have been resolved.

In addition to my reunification with my Aunt, I also become in touch with the father of the boy I tried to save on the subway on that November day. It's hard to believe that that happened a year and a half ago—the time has passed by with unusual speed, as most of the other years of my life seem, in memory, to have passed with extreme slowness from the suffering with which they were infused. Nonetheless, when the man reaches out to me, it seems as though it happened only yesterday. He offers me his thanks again, tells me good news that he has married and adopted a child, and also tells me that he wants me to know that he will forever be grateful for my efforts. It's a brief period, but it helps, when I see and feel the scar from the bullet wound in my side, to be aware of the betterment of his situation, even if his son could not be saved from succumbing to his wounds.

Benedict is up to the chin in work while filming Sherlock throughout the month of April, and often gets so pent-up in the all-consuming work that he'll call me during a break, and it will take five minutes before he's shaken his character's rather abrupt and terse, rapid-fire method of speech—a condition that makes us both laugh once he's shaken off the lingering traces of his character. It's increasingly easy to forget, at times, amongst the repetitions of I-miss-you and the like, that he is possessed of another identity separate from the simple, normal one I've come to know and adore. Alex is, oftentimes, my only source of reminder that he is a celebrity, at all.

Once I try to alleviate the awkwardness around this fact, joking that he should give me the inside scoop on the plot of the upcoming Sherlock season—and then, just a second later, feeling unsure of myself, saying, quickly, "I was kidding—you know I'd never ask that of you," and fearing, irrationally that I will have somehow upset him. But a second later he responds with a good-natured laugh, acknowledging the joke and quelling my sense of insecurity.

More than anything, though, it's the slight tension between us regarding the photographs—how close we'd come to causing a greater problem by being seen together. And, also, the feeling that worsening circumstances regarding our relationship and the media are unavoidable.

But in the meantime, Ben tries to keep me in good faith, and we work hard to continue maintaining and developing our relationship despite exterior stresses, and the frustration that results from being kept so far away from each other physically.

Eventually my lost suitcase does get located again—in London, no less—and Benedict is the one to claim it from the airline, calling me up on a video chat one day and announcing its presence in his apartment.

"They're good company," he says, of my clothes, making me laugh aloud uncontrollably as he takes each shirt from the suitcase, unfolding and re-folding them, laying them out. "But they'd be much better with you in them. I suppose... you'll just have to come over here and get them back."

But he ends up settling for shipping them back to me—at which point Alex announces without room for argument that I am in dire need of a wardrobe update, and takes me out shopping for some new clothes that still fit my old style, but are not quite so drab and overused—or so she says; I've never had much of an eye for fashion; something Alex seems to consider a fatal flaw of mine.

Throughout the month of April, I suffer a few bad stretches of time during which I can't seem to stop thinking about my father—perhaps, suggests Alex, because the year mark since he was found and incarcerated is approaching quickly. There are days when I can hardly get out of bed, and every footstep or movement hurts in a way more emotional than physical. I'll wake up in the middle of the night whimpering and disturbing Alex's sleep, remembering the feeling of his hands on my body, his ropes around my wrists, the choking sensation of being drowned in his alcohol—not being able to escape. On some nights I stay in my Aunt's apartment rather than in the dorm for the sake of Alex's sleep—or I don't sleep at all, spending all night long in the library or—once—in a coffee shop uptown, fading in and out of consciousness under the fluorescent lights—not daring to sit down, and not bearing to stand up, either.

It's during one of the nights I'm away that Alex finds—by mistake—the copy of Great Expectations that Ben gifted me over Christmas, where I'd hid it for the sake of avoiding questions. I feel my stomach turn over that morning when I walk back into our dorm to see her sitting at the desk with the book on one end, staring at her computer screen. It becomes quickly clear that she's discovered the fact that the book is a first printing edition from over 150 years ago, and—worse—has found an online appraisal of it.

"Don't tell me!" I demand immediately, when she starts to do so, covering my ears with my hands. Though my reaction is to be playful, I, really, am sincere—I've exerted much energy in the past months to avoid finding out how much money Ben had spend on it, terrified of finding out, knowing that the amount would be outrageous and knowing that I wouldn't be able to bear to know.

But Alex doesn't understand this and doesn't stop until I can't help but hearing her say, with a hint of awe and also of near-horror: "It's almost 20 grand, Holly."

My jaw literally loosens and drops open upon hearing the number, and checking her computer screen to find that, indeed, it's an accurate figure.

Quickly I'm distracted from the difficulties of my past and brought with a harsh re-entry back to the present. Now, what I can't escape night or day is the reality of the price. I can't help but think hard about Ben's possible intentions: though I know that he wouldn't ever try to manipulate me into a more serious relationship by paying a great amount of money for such a gift, I'm intimidated by the fact that he had no qualms about spending that much money on me. I know that 20 grand isn't just throwaway money, even for someone as wealthy as Ben, and as someone who has always been frugal with money, and has never been doted on in any capacity, this amount is nothing short of stunning—and a little scary, too.

My concerns finally find their way into actual conversation when I at last work up the nerve to tell Ben about Alex's findings on one of our phone calls. We get involved in a brief flirtatious argument about the price of the book itself, to keep ourselves from becoming too sincere. But once a few minutes have passed, a sudden silence overtakes us, a silence filled with the things unsaid, all of our concerns crowding the quiet space between us.

"Ben..." I manage after a minute, piecing my thoughts together cautiously. "What do you want... with me? What... what 's your goal?"

He, in turn, takes a minute of quiet to assemble his mind, and I sit in tense anticipation, waiting for him as he had waited for me moments earlier. In the end he sighs, as though giving up a fight, and then manages a chuckle, his easy-going nature overtaking him as usual, though I know he's still speaking with the utmost sincerity behind his gentle, teasing tone. "To stay with you as long as I can," he answers at last. "To stay with you until you tire of me, that is."

I don't know what I can possibly say to that: I can't see myself ever tiring of Ben, and I had only eve seen him tiring of me, on the contrary. Despite myself, I smile. I remain quiet over the phone, and I'm sure that we can almost hear each other smiling. Before I have the chance to say anything in response, though, Ben interjects again. "Speaking of..."

And he goes on to tell me that he's just found out he will be in New York again come July, to be involved in some brief filming for the new Thor movie, and then to stay longer in support of Tom and of me, as well. I tell him, of course, that I would love to see him. I am overjoyed and looking forward to it immediately, with such intensity that I almost jump up and down then and there, and barely manage to keep my feet on the floor. The thought of seeing him again in the flesh, of embracing him, of... kissing him... overwhelms me with relief and anticipation that sends tingles through my body and my heart—sends tingles lower than I'd ever though they could go after my father.

But this excitement is also balanced by some serious things to think about. The fact of Ben's presence in New York being just a month in the future, prompts me to really consider what it could mean to get into a deeper, more serious relationship with him—a relationship which would inevitably include the side effect of attention from the media and the public.

The idea sounds so alien and faraway, but, yet, dangerously close. I know there will be a high personal price for being in love with someone in his profession, with someone with his amount of fame and exposure to the public. I fear always being known because of my connection to him, and not because I'm distinguishable by my own accomplishments. But after sitting with the problem, my heart tells me quietly, honestly, that if this Is the price, so be it. I know I'm in love, and whatever struggles might accompany a more serious union with Benedict, I am more than willing to take as they come. I know he will be by my side the whole time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that felt like a baby chapter after the last one. I know it probably wasn't as satisfying, mostly filler / information, and not much Benedict (sorry), but necessary nonetheless!
> 
> Thoughts and feelings?
> 
> Alas... it's late and words are starting to fail me. Suffice it to say that I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and that you're looking forward to the next one, in with Ben and Tom will both be coming to NYC!
> 
> Wishing you well,
> 
> Une-papillon-de-nuit
> 
> 2 August, 2020


	13. Chapter 13: Sweet Flowers are Slow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Benedict treats Holly to a Shakesperean surprise... and another one...

**Chapter 13: Sweet Flowers are Slow | Summer, 2016**

**Holly**

I'm multitasking, making a meal for my Aunt and nursing a mounting headache, when I receive a call from Benedict and sigh aloud with relief.

For the summer, I've been staying at my Aunt's apartment. Alex is away with her family on a road trip out west, and staying in the dorm room seemed impractical without her, and while my Aunt was so close by and in need of company. It's still the month of May, a few weeks away from when Benedict and Tom will be coming to New York. Once their spurt of filming here has ended, Ben has planned to take me back with him to London, since I've been offered a second paid internship at the publishing house, which has—extraordinarily—invited me to return.

The knowledge of Ben's presence here in such a short time is one of the only things that keeps me going through this difficult time.

I've gotten a short-term job for myself, waiting tables at a diner in lower Manhattan, which is helping me to contribute to the apartment's rent, and to bills, until I return with Ben to London to intern again. Hopefully, after this summer, I'll have enough money to do better than just scrape by, and might be able to get a job throughout the school year, as well. It will be a lot to tackle, but at least it would be better than what I have to deal with now.

Ben has expressed his awe at my plans and my ability to tackle so much at once, offering to supplement my income with some of his own reserves, but I've always declined his generous offers. No matter how much I appreciate his endless support, and the growing trust and affection I feel towards him day by day, I could never tell Ben about what's been going on with my manager at work...

He's a real asshole, a man who seems like he has been an asshole for most of his life. At the outset I tried really hard every day to keep an open mind, to tell myself I didn't know what was going on in his life, that, maybe, he was struggling with something outside of the diner that made him this way, or... maybe... that he'd been abused as a child, not so far off from what I, too, suffer from.

But it didn't take long for me to deduce that there wasn't much that could truly redeem his actions. He's made a habit of being sexually lewd to all the female employees—who are too afraid to lose their precious positions, as am I, to say anything against him. But lately, he's focused in extra attention on me. In the beginning, I had a couple of female coworkers who were willing to talk with me about it, but after a time, they all began to get frightened of him even more, and now, for the most part, I'm on my own. He knows he can do almost anything, and that I'll still stay on working for him, because I'm so desperate for a salary, however small. Multiple times during my shirt he'll slap my behind, and even more, he makes crude faces and says disgusting things in my presence, manipulating some of the male staff to join in the taunting.

Earlier today, though, my first shift of two on Saturdays, he crossed a new line. When Benedict calls, and I'm fixing a meal for my incapacitated Aunt, the headache I'm also nursing originates from when my manager yanked my hair on the job to get me to look at him when he spoke to me—causing me to drop an order I was carrying out into the dining area in the process. He made me pay for the ruined meal, the dishes which had shattered, and I'd also had to endure the shame of telling the cook what had happened—which made him glare at me like I'd just killed his pet dog.

Not to mention the extreme pain that had gripped my head like a vise when he yanked my hair, and lingered much longer. Two hours and two Advil later it still hurts like hell, and he was so rough that I can't help considering myself lucky that I'm not bald.

If there's anything good about the past month or so, it's my Aunt, herself.

I'm grateful beyond words that she isn't trying to impose upon my life; she hasn't tried to suddenly come in and act as a guardian figure to me. She acknowledges aloud that I have been strong, that I have been the one to get through all the hardship in my life on my own. She honors that, and doesn't try to take any credit for where I am, now.

But she's still miserable, on her own, and today has been one of her worst days. She's locked herself in her room, and seems to have been sleeping for hours, apart from the few times when she's groaned and whimpered aloud, incapable of holding in the physical and mental difficulty of her lingering withdrawal.

I've been hard at work preparing a nice meal for her, to distract myself from the pain of the headache and my anger at my manager, and also so that when I have to leave again for my second shift of work—which I'm not looking forward to AT ALL—if my Aunt decides to come out in search of something to eat, she won't have to do any work. In my mind, it's the least I can do to repay her for the great efforts she's expending in finally taking care of herself for the first time in her life—and, by extension, taking care of ME.

The vibrations of my cell phone jolt me out of my focus on the meal, but I instantly brighten up, forgetting about the pain from the hair-pulling and the stress regarding my Aunt, when I see that it's Benedict on the other end of the line.

The moment I answer the call, however, the endorphins flooding my system turn against me. Before I can get the speaker up to my ear, he's saying: "Holly, this is urgent..." in a darkly serious tone, an edge of panic in his voice.

My heart literally leaps up into my throat. A sudden terror consumes me and I feel every part of my body set on edge. It's a miracle, for how my throat has suddenly closed up, when I hear myself say, shakily: "Okay? What do you need me to do?"

He takes a sharp, shuddering sigh, as though he's actually panicking about something serious...

And then, all at once, his concerned aura is replaced by one of business, and he says in a sarcastically deadpan tone, all the previous traces of panic erased: "Do you have a way of accessing BBC? There's something I'd like you to see."

I feel myself exhale heavily, and I have to physically catch my weight on the edge of the counter, at how lightheaded I am with the revelation. I'd truly felt upset, but I muster a laugh, not letting onto how much the joke had worried me when I was already so high strung. "Not. Funny." I say. And, luckily, he seems to look over the underlying tone of stress in my voice, and chuckles. "Goddamned actors," I mutter, and he laughs harder, any opportunity for him noticing my serious worry evaporated... good.

"But sincerely," he continues, his voice the usual light-hearted melody which I'm used to, which is like honey in my ears, and quickly calms my heart after the moment of fear. "There's a show on I think you'd enjoy."

My first instinct is to tell him that I can't indulge this at the moment: I have to finish up this meal for my Aunt, in case, and I have to be getting ready for work soon, too. But the tone in his voice and my desire to just escape to some other world with him—however briefly—is too much to be denied.

"Yeah, I can get it. My Aunt is love with everything Britain."

"Good. Hurry, I don't want you to miss the beginning."

I abandon my cooking and move through the small, tight space of the apartment, only having to turn the corner to be in the tiny living room which houses two chairs and an old television against one wall. I turn it on, navigating to the right channel, making sure to keep the volume down so that I don't worsen my Aunt's pain in the adjacent room, and I can't help but plop myself down in one of the chairs, exhausted after a long day, and not caring that it will be hard to make myself stand up again after sitting down for the first time all day.

"What is this?" I ask, watching the opening going over across the screen. I recognize a couple of faces, but I'm positive I've never seen the show before, and my interest is piqued. "The Hollow Crown?" I say, watching the words being broadcasted. I notice a flash of Tom's face and wonder briefly If this is the reason why Ben wants me to see it... The thought of us both watching something at the same time across the ocean from each other is slightly romantic and it catches me off guard from my goal for only a beat before I return to myself. "Ben, what is this?" I say again.

But he continues to stay absolutely quiet, apart from the whisper of a covered laugh on the other end of the line that makes me smirk. So I decide to just reign in my curiosity and wait for my answer to be revealed to me in the natural course of time, being extra, dramatically quiet for Ben's sake as I watch the screen, the opening finished, the show beginning.

The first shot onscreen is of a hand poised over the pieces of a chessboard. I recognize it in a split second as Benedict's hand—I would know his hands anywhere—and I suddenly stand up from the chair as though I've just been electrocuted. "Benedict Cumberbatch, what IS this?!" I say again, glee infusing my voice as I go to kneel in front of the TV screen.

"You'll see," he says, laying on the mystery thick, and I'm incapable of holding back the huge grin on my face. He never fails to make a shitty day turn around with the snap of his fingers. I bite my lower lip absentmindedly in anticipation and watch the screen, wanting to know just what this TV show is that he's been hiding from me for who knows how long, probably just for the sake of this surprise.

Slowly the camera moves out from the chessboard, revealing the coiled muscles of his arm, then sweeping over a disfigured back... I begin, at this moment, to guess—hopefully—at what this might be... but I don't let myself get my hopes up.

But when Ben—the on-camera one—turns to look directly at the camera, and begins to deliver the opening monologue of Shakespeare's Richard III, I cannot contain my excitement.

"Oh. My. GOD, Ben!" I manage at length, settling back on my heels and putting a hand to my chest, listening with a smile to Ben laughing over the phone, at the same time as his recorded self continues delivering the monologue with dastardly precision. "I'm going to faint!" I say, honestly, taking a deep breath. "How long have you been keeping this secret!"

He knows full well that Richard III is one of my favorite Shakespearean characters, and I know he must have taken great pains in concealing his involvement in such a show from me. "This is the final episode, actually," he informs me. "The earlier ones cover all of Shakespeare's histories. Tom is Henry the Fifth, to boot-"

But I interrupt him, shaking my head wildly at my immense amusement, and gasping when Dame Judi Dench appears on the screen. "You're on a show with Dame Judi Dench?!" I exclaim, and have to clap a hand over my mouth, with a worried look in the direction of my Aunt's room, hoping I haven't disturbed her rest. Luckily, there's no stirring behind her door.

"Ouch..." he says sarcastically, responding to the surprise that my voice had held.

"I didn't mean it like that," I say with a light laugh.

He's about to say something more, probably a wisecrack worthy of my worship, but suddenly, an alarm starts going off in the kitchen. I gasp a little, and spring up from the floor, hurrying back and turning it off before my Aunt can become too disturbed.

"Shit," I hiss under my breath, quickly scraping at the bottom of the pan to ensure that nothing has burned too badly, realizing that I'll probably have to throw out a quarter of the food.

"What's wrong?" Ben says, voice laced with real worry this time from the other end of the line.

"I'm alright," I assure him, deeming the meal finished and setting it out into containers for easy accessibility in case my Aunt gets hungry later. As I hurry, the clock on the wall catches my eye, and I sigh again, the sheer exhaustion of my mind and body overcoming the enthusiasm which Ben provided just a minute ago. "Ben," I say, almost with a cry, my throat hoarse and weak after the long day, and with the knowledge of many more hours of stressful work under the reign of my manager to come. "I really have to get ready for work."

He waits a moment, the gentle warmth of his concern reaching out to me from thousands of miles away, and then says, clearly trying not to sound too concerned—which he knows only makes me feel more upset: "Sweetheart, You sound exhausted."

His name of endearment for me almost makes me collapse then and there: I want so badly to be able to lean into his chest, to feel the warmth of his arms around me... but I have to keep myself strong, have to stay standing up. "I am," I admit, not trying to keep the honest exhaustion out of my voice, leaning against the counter and massaging the bridge of my nose, feeling on the verge of tears with the longing to just lay down and slip into a dark, dreamless sleep.

But then Ben's voice comes warmly over the speakers. "I'm giving you a tight encouraging embrace," he tells me. It's a little game we've been playing with each other, during our physical separation, and it's helped to ease the pain, if only slightly.

I exhale, closing my eyes and imagining the feeling. "I'm kissing your chest and returning it," I sigh lightly.

For a few precious moments we remain in that other place and time—and it's as though I really can feel his arms surrounding me, the warmth of his body, his heart beating against my ear.

But then it has to end and we both exhale at the same time, releasing each other from the imaginary hug. "I'll let you go," he says reluctantly. "But—for me—please, try to get some rest when you get home."

"Are you kidding?" I say, mustering all the energy I have left and channeling it into my voice. "You just gave me a new television show to binge watch, and you want me to actually get some shuteye?"

"You're right," he says with a low chuckle, "what a hypocrite I am."

I sigh again, and go into the living room to shut off the television again, before leaning against the wall, forcing away the desire to yawn in my tiredness. "I'll get some sleep," I assure him. "I promise."

For another moment, we're in that place, again, that place where we're together, where it's only us, and schedules and jobs and time itself is not necessary. "I love you, Holly," he says.

"I love you, Ben."

* * *

**Benedict**

Tom and I alight together from the airplane in the early evening, refraining from interacting much as we steal through the airport in hats and sunglasses. It's a relief when, at last, we make it to our pre-ordered private car out front with our luggage in tow, without having been spotted, and are directly on our way to the hotel. I consider calling Holly and letting her know we're safe, but I know she'll be at work, and don't want to risk disturbing her. Both Tom and I are thoroughly tired from the jetlag, and the fact that it should be almost midnight back in London, our time—but we quickly break through the ice of the sleepiness, and fall into our usual banter.

Within the hour we've gotten to the hotel, checked into our rooms, gotten our baggage settled and re-opened lines of communication with our assistants and fellow cast members. After a time, the exhaustion I'd felt coming off the plane has dissipated, and I'm overcome by a sort of electric excitement, no threat of sleep on the horizon, especially when I look at the view of the city outside the hotel room window. Tom, as though sensing my restlessness, is quick to knock on my door, coming from his own suite across the hallway.

"Have you told Holly you're here yet?" he asks, once we've sat ourselves down on the couch by the window.

"No, actually," I say, checking the time and frowning, knowing her shift still hasn't ended. "I don't want to bother her while she's working."

But even as I say it, an idea takes form in my head, an idea which seems so straightforward and obvious that I can't believe I hadn't thought of it earlier. And Tom, in turn, gets a clever glint in his eye. "I'm feeling a bit hungry... Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" he says at length, rather cheekily, and I give up a chuckle before nodding my head.

After freshening up and changing out of our airplane clothes, we both get into another car and direct the driver to the diner where Holly has been working, and will continue to work until a week from now when she and I escape again to London for the remainder of her summer off of university. It's with a continuation of our luck at the airport that we get a private corner booth for ourselves without attracting any attention, and chuckle at each other, easing into our casual conversation while we wait, glad to find ourselves in such a normal setting for a change.

Holly comes out of the kitchen looking slightly agonized and extremely tired—more tired than the both of us combined, even after our flight. But she brightens up instantly when she comes toward us across the dining area and recognizes us. I can't help but laugh aloud when she smiles broadly and then has to reign her happiness in, adopting a more professional façade as she comes to stand in front of our table.

"Good evening, gentlemen," she says, looking between Tom and I with a raised eyebrow, setting menus in front of us and taking great pains in reeling in her amusement at her situation.

"Good evening, Lady," I respond with a good-natured sarcasm, reaching for her hand and kissing her knuckles, making her jump a little and stifle a laugh against the back of her hand. I feel instantly more relaxed after finally being able to touch her again, and Tom gives me a devilish look across the table, grinning up at Holly—he's been clear to me about how much he enjoys her company, for how casual and good-natured she is, and how happy she makes me.

Holly slips her hand out of mine and looks over her shoulder nervously towards the kitchen doors before truly relaxing, though not enough to dare take my hand again. "When did you two land?" she says, still fidgeting slightly and taking out her notepad, poised and pretending to write.

"Almost two hours ago, now," I say.

Tom considers her face, testing the waters, and makes the right decision in the end, saying, "And we're very thirsty for..." trying to put her stress at ease. I feel slightly bad for having surprised her so completely.

"Water?" I ask, and Tom nods, both of us repeating the request with affirmative nods.

"Thank you," she mouths in Tom's direction.

"Good to see you again," he says congenially, set on helping to put her at ease, "We don't want to get in the way of your job-"

"But-" I interject, cutting him off with a chuckle, "... we do." She laughs a little, but I can tell that she's nervous about something. "I love you," I tell her again, catching her hand and squeezing it before letting her go, watching her. She looks over her shoulder and smiles once more before disappearing behind the kitchen doors.

"She was certainly caught off guard," says Tom, face open and bright as he picks up his menu discreetly, studying it with exaggeration as two young women pass by our booth on their way to the restrooms. Once they've passed I let him know he's in the clear and he sets the menu down again, still studying it when he says, discreetly, "But Ben..." without looking up at me, "She's really in love with you."

I can't help but smile at my best friend's words, warmth blossoming through my chest at my heart's recognition of their truthfulness. I don't need to respond; Tom looks up at me and smiles, and I know he's extraordinarily happy for me. Without needing to speak further along that route, we set about making a decision regarding what to order.

Shortly, she comes out to take our order, still seeming a bit tense, but happy enough, and definitely more at ease than she had been when she first reacted to the surprise of our presence. Her posture is businesslike, but she remains slightly jocular, a light banter quickly ensuing. Tom makes an order of a light salad and I, deciding to be a bit more adventurous, turn to her and clear my throat, saying, "Je voudrais le Croque-Monsieur, s'il vous plait, ma cherie" (I would like the Croque-Monsieur, please, my dear).

For a second her pen stops against her notepad and she stutters a little, looking down at me. But promptly she gathers herself with a little smirk and replied wittily, "A Croque-Monsieur, you say? I think you've already got one-" she nods her head to a dumbfounded Tom "-sitting across from you... will he not suffice?"

Both of us are made speechless momentarily, impressed by both her ability to comprehend French and by her wordplay, knowing that Croque-Monsieur would literally translate to a "Crunchy Mister." I nearly snort with amusement and Tom actually has to cover his mouth as he shakes with laughter. She turns around swiftly after that, taking our menus and leaving us both shocked, looking after her with slack jaws, and then turning back to each other, chuckling uncontrollably.

But then she comes back out again, ten minutes or so later, with our food. There's no doubt that she's upset, and she's completely incapable of mustering her previous lightheartedness. It seems, even from a distance, as though she might actually be on the verge of tears, her small body bent in an unexplained aggravation. What taps me towards the edge of my wariness, though, is that, when she places down our food, and leans closer to me, I notice a band of red skin around her wrist, slightly inflamed, as though from a blow.

"What's this?" I question instantaneously, worry stitching my eyebrows together as I feel a slight pang of protectiveness shudder through my mind.

She's about to draw away again but I catch her at the elbow and pull her closer, examining her wrist. Tom also notices and leans over to look at what's captured my concern, clicking his tongue worriedly when he sees the reddened skin. "It was an accidental burn," she tells us quietly, almost in a whisper. "Nothing to worry about."

But it's not lost on either of us that she looks extremely uptight and distressed, something she could hide from the other customers, but that she can't hide from me. Something is definitely not right, and the reddened skin doesn't look like the result of a burn at all. But before I can say anything else, she pulls herself away with a quiet force, knowing I won't manipulate my strength against her to force her to stay. Her eyes are downcast when she says, more to Tom than to me, "Let me know if I can get you anything else," before hurrying away again.

It's with particular stiffness that she comes out again after we've both eaten, to re-fill our water glasses and ask if we want desert.

"We'll just have the check, please," Tom answers in my stead, a smile ready on his face. But both of us have noticed that a man, who appears to be Holly's manager, is looming outside the kitchen doors, watching our table with crossed arms. I might worry that he'd found out who we were, if he didn't look so clearly upset and slightly suspicious, on his own—and instead I piece together the worsening red wrapping around her wrist with the man in an instant.

"Is everything alright, love?" Tom asks her, looking back at her after assessing the manager by the kitchen, as I had. Tom and I exchange a momentary glance and it seems we're both wondering the same thing, but we know to be cautious, and not to jump to conclusions.

"I'm fine," she says to him, almost through gritted teeth. But there's something behind her dismissive smile that tells us both otherwise. I look into her eyes, trying to convey our trustworthiness, trying to find the truth, but I'm met only with a wall of worry and aversion that I can't quite crack, and she hurries away before I have a chance.

We both watch carefully as she goes back to the kitchen, and the manager says something to her—rather harshly—before they both disappear. Tom and I look at each other for a beat, both concerned, but we decide not to do anything yet. And just a minute later, she comes out to give us the check, looking slightly relieved, and as though none of the anxiety she'd clearly suffered in the past minutes had ever happened.

"My shift ends in five minutes," she says to us, leaving it open-ended, inquiring after our follow-up plans.

"We'll wait for you if you want to come back to the hotel with us for a little while," I propose, looking at Tom, who nods his agreement.

"I would love to join you," she says, an expression of increased relief on her face. I can tell that something's been going on behind the scenes this whole time, but decide not to question... yet. "My Aunt will be wanting some alone time tonight, anyway," she adds.

I'm extremely grateful for her Aunt's presence, though we haven't yet met in person. She's told her Aunt about the two of us and her Aunt, unlike Alexandra—though she's a very kind and supportive young lady—looks at our relationship objectively; which is an external influence Holly is glad to have.

And, true to her word, Holly comes out of a different door other than the swinging ones to the kitchen five minutes later, dressed out of her work slacks and shirt and into her usual, casual yoga pants and college sweatshirt, looking tired but less under strain than she had during her shift. We leave together and get our car back to the hotel building, talking casually all the way, Holly fitting (amusingly) comfortably in the center seat between Tom and myself. Just over the course of the ride she seems to lighten up significantly, becoming more at ease in her own skin and with the two of us, leaning her precious head on my shoulder and smiling against my arm when she feels me take her hand. Her sweater covers her reddened wrist, so I can't look at it discreetly as I would like to, but she squeezes my hand and is so relaxed between the two of us that I almost forget about my concern.

Until when, later, we're back in the hotel, the three of us together in my suite, she heads straight to the bathroom, excusing herself, and turns on the sink, leaving it on for an unnaturally long time.

"Something doesn't seem quite right," Tom says, the first of us to speak on our shared thoughts.

"I agree," I say to him after a moment, looking worriedly towards the bathroom door, wondering what she's trying to hide behind the sound of the water. "I'll go see to it."

She doesn't open the door when I knock the first time, or the second, and its only when I plead for her to open the door that she finally does, letting me in. I close the door around behind me, offering her some privacy, and I gently take her face in my hand, not letting her hide herself from me, a startled breath catching in my throat when I see that she'd turned the sink tap on to hide the sound of her crying. She looks at me for a moment before her face drops down again, and her small body shudders with a new wave of tears, the exhaustion finally catching up to her physically as she sobs. I reach behind me and turn the water off, and sit her down on the toilet seat, kneeling in front of her and questioning her gently.

She winces and hisses a bit when I pull up the sleeve of her sweater to reveal the inflamed wrist, which has started to swell slightly, and the pain on her face makes something in me sting in response. I don't dare touch the red band of skin directly, but after sifting through the cupboard under the sink, I locate a tube of salve and a bandage, which I apply for her while she tries to get her crying under control—rather unsuccessfully, though most of her sobs have subsides, leaving her with a series of shudders and sniffles.

It astounds me to no end, still, just how much she as an individual has endured, how she continues to persist through every trial, how much her body and heart have had to bear over the years. The fact of her existence before me is a miracle in itself, and I can only hope she can feel my deep care for her through the gentleness of my hands as I bind her wrist, making sure it's not too tight before taping it and taking her hands in mine.

By now, she's calmed down enough that I can look into her eyes without her looking skittishly away. A few tears slip from their corners and roll down her cheeks, but she continues to look at me, so much of her gumption suctioned out of her suddenly, but a resolve still remaining.

"I know it's not a burn," I say, probing the waters, stroking my thumbs along the palms of her small hands. "Was it that man in front of the kitchen doors?" I ask after a moment, neither of us needing context for the question.

She nods her head in the affirmative and sniffles again, clenching her jaw a bit, asserting, "He's a prick." I try to chuckle a little, but it comes out morose, and she looks up at me with a trembling from on her face. "God, Ben, I'm just... I'm so. So. Tired."

And now the tears speed up again, her shoulders shaking, letting me keep her hands in mine but tucking her head down between her knees with the groan of someone who has just run five marathons back to back. This is the moment I've been missing—to be able to hug her in reality, to brush away her tears and draw her into me, let her release all of her exhaustion in my arms—so I seize it.

When I first draw her nearer, her crying actually intensifies, as though her relief causes her pain—which I can understand. I ensnare her waist gently and draw her off of the toilet seat and down to me, letting her sit on my lap while I lean back against the bathtub, pulling her flush against me and keeping pressure on her back until, slowly, her crying ebbs. She's slumped gently against my chest and shoulder, and the scent of her (her tiredness punctuating her regular sweet scent of books and fresh air) fills my head, letting me to relax, in turn, against her as our hearts fall into the same rhythm at last after our long separation. The warmth of our closeness fills my chest with its own bittersweet release and it's a long time before either of us dares to speak again.

"Holly," I start warily, after enough time has passed, knowing not to let the problem at hand rest for too long, or else she's bound to keep us from coming back around to it. "I think you should quit that job."

I feel her tense slightly against my chest, and I loosen my hold on her when she pulls back against my hands to look at me with an expression of confusion in her eyes.

"If you want backup," I say, trying to be funny but—I can tell—failing under these particular circumstances, "I can go with you as an intimidation factor. Look..." I see her face visibly draw back further; she knows what I'm about to suggest, but I can't keep from doing so in my need to help her. "You know I'm more than willing to help with money. Anything you need for your contribution to rent, bills, food... anything, Holly. You know that."

She groans almost despite herself, but doesn't have the energy to shift off of me, instead expressing her usual disagreement with a determined shake of her head in the negative. "And YOU know I'm not comfortable with you spending money on me," she says, so exhausted that her eyes almost droop closed, and she can't help but lean her head on my shoulder again, making a smile ghost across my lips as I hold her close. "I can't even believe I let you convince me to keep that copy of Great Expectations after I found out how much you spent on it." I can feel her mouth twitch up into a smile of its own against my chest; this has been a real point of discussion and playful argument between us—and I know that, though she's serious about not wanting financial help, she doesn't want to argue about it, which is a relief, as I know we're both simply too exhausted to do so without running the risk of hurting each other.

"Here we go again," I say dramatically, chuckling, the vibrations in my chest inciting a more light pulse of laughter from her own spent body. And just like that, the tension between us is dispelled.

"I appreciate your generosity, but... I'm going to just work through this last week," she says after a moment, bringing us around to our original subject of her job. "Just five more days, until the date I was going to leave anyway. Okay?"

At length I have to agree, seeing her point, knowing the ways of these stingy sorts of managers, knowing that she won't be given a paycheck unless she works to the scheduled end date, and knowing that, even if she did resign, she would never accept money from me. But silently, I vow to keep a careful watch over her for the next five days, to ensure to the best of my ability that she is as safe as possible. Watching over her shouldn't be too difficult, as I have very little filming to participate in, and will have most days entirely to myself, to be with her as much as possible.

We come out of the bathroom together a few minutes later, once she's scrubbed the tracks of tears from her face, and decided not to mind if Tom notices the redness in her eyes, knowing she can trust him as a fellow emotional being. When we get out into the common space, we're instantly struck by the sight of Tom himself, draped out over the couch dramatically. He turns to us at the sound of our exit and says, "Don't start fighting on me, lovebirds," in an accent so posh that we both lighten up in the snap of one's fingers.

With ease the three of us settle in on the couch, exhausted in our own ways and strangely high on the view of the city-which Holly marvels over shamelessly. She texts her Aunt's phone to let her know where she is, and then sets it aside, fully present with Tom and I. Conversation strikes up quickly, and it's not long before we've spanned multiple topics, engaged totally in each other, the three of us feeding off of one another's energy admirably, given the time of night and the high-running emotions from myself and Holly's end of the couch.

We soon discover that she and Tom have an almost identical taste in music: very versatile, but with extra respect for Rock from the sixties through the eighties, and Classical music. They can both sing along to the entirety of U2's Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For, and both Tom and I have to stand up and applaud when Holly makes it all the way through Mozart's 29th Symphony in A without missing a single note.

But the fun can only last so long, before Holly literally passes out, when she and I have just sat down after slow-dancing to Phil Collins's Lady in Red. The least I can do is guide her to the bed before she collapses, and I tiptoe back over to the couch, where Tom has turned off the music for the sake of allowing "the poor girl some peace."

After a few minutes of calm, comfortable silence, during which I can feel my bed and the presence of Holly in it calling, and Tom seems to be setting himself up to leave us for the night, he shifts and turns to me with a conspiring grin. "Whenever the day comes that we're all three in London together," he says, the lights of New York reflected in his eyes from the window, "we should set aside some time together. You both are welcome in my apartment, you know. I love you two together."

I chuckle and hold back a yawn, smiling at the thought of a relaxing evening with Holly and Tom in front of his fire: it's a thrill to me to know that my two most loved companions also enjoy one another's company. "Are you going to show her your record collection?" I say mischievously. "Or is it too early?"

"Oh, definitely too early, mate," he chuckles. "Exposure to my record collection is a very advanced stage in my relationships."

"What does that make me, then?"

We share a few good quiet laughs before, when it's nearly one in the morning (we're both shocked to discover), Tom dismisses himself to his own suite for a shower, exhausted and ready to collapse into bed, himself.

I would do the same, as well, but I know that I have Holly to attend to first. I start by taking her hair gently out of its hair tie, and placing the latter on the bedside table along with her phone, which I don't think will run out of charge overnight. Then I pull back the covers on the side of the bed she's not occupying, and pick her up every so gently, placing her down again on the sheets and then joining her under the blanket, spooning her carefully. A deep happiness spreads through my entire body—I'd missed this terribly in the months since our Christmas spent together. After a moment her body rises and falls with a deep breath, and her subconscious murmurs something loving to me, making me smile just before I slip into sleep after her: the most content heart in all the world.

* * *

**Holly**

I'm invited to be in Benedict's hotel room whenever I want to be, but in the end, we choose not to risk it. He and Tom are only ever there at night, anyway, so when Ben and I spend our time together, it's mostly in my Aunt's apartment. She's been getting out every day looking all over the place for employment, to get herself back into a routine. And there's something half-funny and half-frightening about being in a place I can call (in part) my own, with Ben, without my Aunt. It makes me feel, ever so slightly, like the rebellious high schooler I never was, and never would have been.

Six days, which is all we have together before we'll be flying back to London for the remainder of the summer, seem to absolutely fly by. But within them are sowed important seeds that make me wonder what the next months will hold for us. When we're alone, out walking in the park covertly, or kissing and touching dangerously in my little bedroom, I feel a thrill—and, countering it, a sharp and very present spike of caution and wariness.

It's on one particular late morning, when Ben kisses me with a gentle, overwhelming abandon against the counter, that I feel force to verbally brooch the subject we've both been turning over in our minds. I feel that I can truly be honest with him, so it's strange when a feeling of worry comes into my chest at what I know I need to say. Eventually, though, once I've carefully pressed my hands against his chest, making him step back a bit, looking at me attentively from his towering height, I find my center again.

"Benedict," I start, my emotions like a cloud of butterflies, the flush still hot and beckoning on my cheeks, and another sensation... lower... lower... telling me to shut up and act on instinct. "I want to be more physical with you," I say, truthfully, marveling inwardly at my own courage for looking directly into his eyes. "But..." I say, noticing the flash of agreement in his eyes, "I'm frightened." His eyebrows furrow slightly in sympathy- "Not of you," I amend, "But... I just don't want to... panic, when you... when we..."

I shake my head after a moment of mental stuttering, and scoff at myself, putting my palm against my forehead in a gesture of insecurity which isn't lost on Ben. Consolingly, he pulls my hand from my face, and tilts my chin up tenderly, looking down at me with his eyes infused completely with understanding and a willingness to converse, which sends my heart sailing with relief and recognition of just how lucky I am to be with him.

Before our six days are over, he is sure to let me know that he wants to move slowly with me; that, if I'm uncomfortable, he will never, ever force himself on me; that, if necessary, he will wait for a long, long time, until I am ready. And this new trust between us only makes my desire for him grow—a desire hampered, now, only by the psychological block my mind has placed between emotional love and sex. The way Ben and I can talk about my needs, my fears, only assures me that I won't have to wait the eternity that I've feared before preparedness comes, before I can cast off my blanket of anguish and memory, and rush forward to embrace him physically, in the present.

But until then, we take it slow.

When our time waiting in New York has run out, I leave work with relief, a more-than-earned paycheck in the bank account, and pack myself a small back for London. I am confident that my Aunt will be in a better condition than ever before this summer, having found a job and—seemingly—found herself, too, at last.

Bidding us goodbye at the hotel, Tom (who I've come to trust and rely on extremely after just two meetings in person) jokes about our abandoning him in New York for the remainder of the filming, but then lets us go, extending his good wishes, and telling me that he hopes Ben and I might find our way into his apartment for a relaxing evening in the not-too-distant future.

At the airport, we stay separated from each other by a few feet, myself walking some paces ahead of and to the side of Ben, so that if someone happens to recognize him, I won't be caught in the crossfire. Once we find our gate we sit apart, too, making the whole thing a terribly funny joke, casting long hello-stranger glances at each other across the space...

Until the joke is no longer a joke, and a woman actually does approach him while we're waiting. He takes a picture with her and exchanges a few words before she leaves again, one of those huge fan smiles on her face which I'm becoming more and more accustomed to as I spend more time around him. The whole time, he avoids looking at me but for a few glances, and a single wink, and I have to cover my mouth to stifle my shaking laughter at the hilarity of it all...

Then we finally get on the plane, and sit down together, laughing at the experience, conversing about our hopes and plans for our time in London, and dozing on and off beside each other for seven hours as we are borne over the sea, through the clouds, into the future...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just thought I should mention that Holly's situation at work is taken in part from something I actually experienced. My manager was not as sex-oriented in his terrorizing of his employees, but he was definitely close. He had a penchant for startling the younger women in his employ with loud noises (there were two of us at the beginning and then the other girl—wisely—quit, leaving me to fend for myself, in a sense). I actually did end up dropping an order at one point, and he made me clean up the mess—which left my customers waiting way too long, and made them very rude, and made them decide not to leave a tip—and he also had me pay for the meal and the dishes, AND tell the cook what had happened. And, oh, boy, was the cook PISSED OFF. All in all that job was a terrible experience. Asshole. In short: unless you're out-of-this-world lucky, Benedict and Tom are not going to show up in your defense. Stand up for yourself and get the hell out of there as soon as you can. Don't let the bastards grind you down!
> 
> For anybody who was wondering, the title of this chapter, "Sweet Flowers are Slow," is part of a line from the play Richard III: "Sweet flowers are slow and weeds make haste," yet another piece of Shakespeare's absolute genius... Really, though, I cannot get enough of Benedict in Shakespearean roles! The Hollow Crown was just stunning. And, also, Tom Hiddleston as Henry V?! Awesomeness.
> 
> I just want to take a moment to express my gratitude for you guys. Gosh, life really has it in for me right now. But things are going to get better eventually. This story is really serving as an effective refuge for me in the meanwhile (at least when I have the time to return to it)…
> 
> So many more people are reading this than I ever imagined could be possible, and so soon in the process as well! I WELCOME and ENCOURAGE reviews and comments from EVERYONE—it really helps me to keep going with this. Thank you so much for your commitment and support! You guys really keep me motivated, and I am grateful beyond words.
> 
> SO, things are FINALLY getting a little more physical! I as the writer am trying to be patient with Holly's needs, as is Benedict, and I hope you will be patient with me, in turn. More of that next time...
> 
> Une-papillon-de-nuit
> 
> 5 August 2020


	14. Chapter 14: The Elephant and the Swan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In London again!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Physical intimacy in this chapter! At last! So, in the interest of letting you guys in on both Holly and Benedict's thoughts simultaneously, I've decided to tell this chapter from a third person point of view. Hope it doesn't throw anybody off too badly... It'll be back to normal in the next one. Enjoy!

**Chapter 14: The Elephant and the Swan | Summer 2016**

The first week serves them pleasantly: Holly gets back into the rhythm of her internship, bringing work home and typing ravenously through the evenings when she's alone in the apartment, and Benedict involves himself in charity work and catches the odd audition or meeting. At night they sleep in the same bedroom, at last, leaving no need for the guest room. Tim and Wendy have returned to their London house for the year, and the four of them meet once or twice at their place, for relaxing, delightful tea and conversation; the older folks endlessly happy to be reunited with their son's sweetheart for the first time since Christmas.

On weekends when neither of them is working, they go out and about exploring the city, keeping to the less populated places, but sometimes swaddling themselves in the protection of crowds, Ben showing her all around the city. She is happy to see all of it, but the older, more historical areas are what truly draw her eye.

In the mornings, when it's still cool, they jog together through the park, using the temperature as an excuse to wear hoods, which aid their anonymity. But they can only keep it up for so long before, in early July, Ben returns at the end of the day and discovers that photographs had been taken earlier that morning, and had been circulating around the internet for hours before anybody who might have stopped them could find out.

He doesn't usually take time to poke and prod around the comments on the internet involving pictures caught of himself—but he makes an exception for these, wanting to be aware of what Holly, herself might read—and also being slightly curious and worried, on his own. In the beginning, he's met mostly with the usual remarks of curiosity, a few haters, but always balanced out by kind—if a bit possessive—defenders. But it's not long before he reaches the real center of the matter, further into the comment threads where the true haters lie, his eyes scanning over the flagrant, scathing remarks, shaking his head and curling his fingers in his hair in distress.

"Christ," he says aloud to himself, after a while, unable to keep silent amidst the online storm.

"What is it?" says Holly, peeking in at the doorway as she sets her bag down on the floor, and he jumps a little bit.

"I didn't hear you come in," he says, trying to play it light. But she knows—she smiles at him, but is still worried by his previous tone, looking for an answer to her query. He sighs, knowing he's not about to trick her, and knowing that he should be the one to see the photographs with her the first time. "People," he says at length, stuttering: "Sorry-some people, some... things. Just..." He motions to the computer screen, and she pads over to him, looking over his shoulder while he looks up at her, gauging her face for any clue of her true emotions. But she only frowns slightly, eyebrows furrowed.

"I'm having a hard time, Holly," he admits at last. "I hate bringing you into this, publicly."

She leans back from the computer screen, crossing her arms over her chest slightly, but not defensively... considering, thinking. After a minute she says, tentatively, and not quite looking at him for fear that he'll disagree with her, "Why don't we just say something, ourselves? Haters will be haters, but, if we at least dispel some of the curiosity, maybe it will die down. If that's what you want."

He sees her point, but shakes his head no, on his first reaction. "Anything we release ourselves, people will only eat up more ferociously. But... that is still a good idea."

For a while they both continue to stare at the computer screen, until Ben declares "enough" and closes out of the tab, closing the laptop and leading her into a different room. But in the end, they do decide to release an official statement, to make it easier on them both: a real commitment, a public decision. Holly knows the danger she's putting herself in through this, knows that this is something permanent, which could change her life forever, change the way people see her... but she knows that Ben has already changed her life—and he is all that any of this will ever be about, as far as she's concerned-not the press, not the gossip, not his celebrity, just... him.

Ben, however, is less convinced. "But, the risks..." he says for the umpteenth time, when it's nearing dusk outside the windows and their second pot of tea is working up to a boil on the stove. "People will only see you through the lens of, well, Benedict Cumberbatch. They won't see, primarily, Holly Whitaker." Though he does have a feeling that people will see her for herself, eventually, it's difficult to bear even the prospect of shrouding her, of making her feel inferior to—or stuck by—him.

Holly's face becomes slightly drawn as she considers what he's said, but both of them know she's already thought about it before. At length, after the kettle has started to whine and Ben has poured two more cups of tea for them, she gathers herself up, situating herself on her chair with her heel on the seat, hugging her knee to her chest. "If that's the way it has to be," she says with a slight shudder, "then so be it. Ben, I'm not in this for them." She motions out towards the window, and, effectively towards the world. He shakes his head slightly, balancing his forehead in his palm, his heart wanting to reach out towards her, but his mind telling him to wait, to give her the chance to leave... though he would hate himself for it afterwards.

Sensing the depth of his distress, she reaches a hand out to him across the table, and when he hesitates in taking it, she stands and goes to him herself, putting her hand on his shoulder gently. "Ben, look at me," she says quietly, and the warmth of her body, and the warmth of her voice, makes him oblige her. "You said they'd always see me through your lens?" she says, "Well... you're a really, really great lens. I love you."

Ben collaborates with his manager, and in the next two days, they do end up releasing a statement, letting the public know that the both of them are, indeed in a relationship, connecting the recent photographs taken in the park to the ones taken outside the Northumberland airport the past winter. No private information about Holly, herself, is disclosed, not even her name, to the outrage of the internet. But both of them let it rest, agreeing not to probe the comments section or the resulting gossip articles. Ben's assistant agrees to let him know, though, if there's anything threatening or worth seeing in the comments, lightening his burden and allowing them both to go free and let it be.

* * *

Their bodies become more acquainted in those weeks. At night, they pull their clothes off in stages and study each other tenderly in the darkness, touching carefully, kissing dangerously. He accepts each one of her scars, the surgical scar from the incident on the subway when they'd first met in New York, and the ones from her father, and her bad years on the streets, as well—kissing every one, in awe of her strength. But there's always a place where they stop—a time when their hands become too eager, and they have to separate themselves and try to sleep before they can step over the line which is still in place: Holly's slowly-bending fear.

She feels guilty for her anxiety, and tells him so, sometimes crying in her hatred for that thing in her mind which won't let her escape all those years of her past. But in those times, he catches her up in his arms, and pulls her close against his body, assuring her that it's not her fault, telling her that he will wait as long as she needs. He tells her she has a beautiful soul, tells her she can trust him. This is something many have said to her before. But when he says it, it's the first time she's believed it.

She moves around silently, as gracefully as a swan; he can never hear her going around the apartment, or even if she's there at all, unless she's making noise on her keyboard or has the water on somewhere. It's common for her to come up to him and startle him on accident, telling him abashedly that moving around without making a single sound is something of a habit, and one she can't quite seem to break.

"You make me feel like a lumbering elephant when I walk around," he admits with a chuckle, taking her onto his lap and encircling her waist with his arms.

"Nonsense," she declares, pecking his cheek and then settling in against his side, speaking softly into his ear. "You're as gentle and lovely as a dove," with a slight giggle that makes him pinch her shoulder in jest.

And suddenly he swings her up over his shoulder, holding her there, laughing loudly and protesting without really meaning it, as he stomps about the apartment, declaring, once he's finally set her down again: "No, decidedly a lumbering elephant," and planting one of his chillingly warm kisses on her mouth.

But he's still sure to sneak up behind her later that day, taking great pains in keeping himself silent, and then suddenly straightening up and tapping her on the shoulder, making her jump nearly to the ceiling, with a sharp gasp, holding her hand to her heart. He watches her glare at him and can't help his shoulders' shaking from his laughter as he says, "Taste of your own medicine."

Playfully, she hits him on the arm, but then sinks against him, savoring the warmth of him and humming in happiness as he returns the gesture, wrapping his arms around her little frame. "What if," she says, pondering, "I was the taller one. Then I could be the one to comfort YOU," envying him his size, if only because she never feels quite capable of comforting him, given her small limbs and short stature.

"You're perfectly capable of comforting me, love," he argues gently into her ear, tugging her closer, squeezing her gently, causing her to relax further against his frame. "You're comforting me as we speak. Tell me: is a child not comforted by a stuffed animal less than a quarter of his own size?"

She scoffs lightly against his shirt, going rigid with laughs. "You make a good point, but I don't know whether or not to take offense to that."

He shakes his own head at himself, "I didn't mean it that way," and chuckles, holding her out at arm's length, hands squeezing her shoulders. "You are most certainly a human being of flesh and blood, comparable in no way to a stuffed toy. And..." for the first time that day, he allows himself to take her in with his eyes, and raises an eyebrow mischievously at her. "You look scrumptious."

"Pfft," she says, blushing slightly and twisting away.

But he holds her close, bringing her back into him and lowering his mouth to her ear. "I could just..." he says, his voice deep and dramatically menacing, eyes flashing... "I could just... eat you."

For a second, the sudden change in his mien makes her actually scared, chills and goosebumps springing up all over. "You're going to give me a bad dream with that voice," she says, with a slight squeak, relieved to see the normal Ben return to his eyes, but still slightly intimidated—in a good way.

"Mmm," he says, "by bad, I hope you mean naughty."

She smiles bashfully and a rumble goes through his chest as he bends down to kiss her gently, but with an underlying hunger which makes her legs tremble.

Her mouth opens to his, and her body melts further. She wants him terribly, painfully, but she knows, too, that, were she to try to cross that bridge right now, she would end up afraid. A whimper ripples up through her mouth, both from the thought and the distress her body feels at being thus denied of its burning desires. And, though his own body protests, too, after a beat, Ben steps away—he knows what he does to her, knows to respect her boundaries physically, or she will give into him, knows that he has no choice but to trust and respect her knowledge of herself, however painful the waiting is.

Keeping a safe distance, but not leaving her just yet, he brushes his hand over her cheek, smiling, letting her know that it's okay this time, as it always will be. But, Still, he has to suppress a groan—the thought alone of being inside her sends him reeling, and self-control is a hard-won battle.

* * *

As fate would have it, that night, a nightmare does come to Holly... but not at Benedict's hands. It's the sort of nightmare she hasn't had in a long time: full of feelings and images that usually manifest themselves in momentary flashes of memory or horror I the daytime, only to dispel a moment later and leave her in a limbo-state of relief, but still full of worry, expecting trouble—expecting to encounter her father—at every turn.

She wakes from it, not with a start, but with a sinking feeling of being paralyzed, and then having to work herself out of bed piece by piece. She gets up carefully, easing her weight away from Ben, so he won't wake, and then sneaks into the bathroom across the hall, feeling separate from herself, only connected to her completely naked body barely—by a string. She closes the door around, not lucid enough to lock it, or even to turn on the light, before leaning against the counter unsteadily, splashing water in fer face, shivering uncontrollably. She feels like she might be sick, but knows she won't be, and her mind is out of control, her body in pain, remembering. Tears spring out of her eyes, stinging in the darkness, and she's starting to panic, silently, her throat closing up because she's trapped inside of her body and there's no hope of getting out.

Without thinking, letting that misguided sense of being half-dead guide her every movement, she turns on the shower to its coldest setting and gets under it, sitting in a ball on the floor of the tub, letting herself become numb, rocking back and forth for a time and then just becoming totally still, shivering in absolutely freezing water, letting the white noise of the faucet drown out the lingering sounds of her dream, feeling the beads of water trickling down her back, urging on her silent, choking tears.

In the bedroom across the hall Ben's subconscious picks up on the sound of the shower, and he wakes in a snap of consciousness, his body stiffening when he feels the absence of Holly in bed, and pieces together that fact with the sound of the shower across the hall.

At the onset of his lucidity, he considers leaving her be, but then he knows that she never takes showers this late, and a general sense comes into the chambers of his heart, that something is not right. That she needs him.

Trusting the gut feeling, he rises from the mattress, and goes across the hall in the darkness to the bathroom door, pressing his ear against it, hearing nothing telling beneath the sound of the shower. "Holly?" he calls carefully, tapping on the door. He does this twice more, but there is still no response, and a pang of worry takes up sudden residence in his chest, calling him to get through the door.

It's with surprise that he finds the door isn't locked—juxtaposed by his previous sensation of danger and adrenaline—but he is glad of it, and opens the door carefully, entering the bathroom.

His heart rises into his throat when he sees her, curled around herself in the shower, and Holly, herself, can only vaguely sense his presence, but doesn't look up at him, because she is sure her neck is permanently frozen under the water. Ben reaches out to check the temperature and hisses at finding it freezing, reaching down and turning the water off.

She can't move, but she doesn't want to in the first place. She's surprised when, when he reaches out to touch her, his hand seeming hot against her frigid, shivering skin, her body is capable of movement-a flinch, a sudden jump away from the feeling of physical contact. A sob jumps from her throat just afterward, both in a cold-delayed reaction to his hand, and also upon realizing that she'd flinched away from him that way, her instincts suggesting danger in his presence, though her heart still knows he is safe. A terrible guilt takes over her, casting itself over and through her like the coldest ice, and she comes even more still than before, silent tears rolling out of her eyes.

He brings her a blanket and—ever so gently—places it around her shoulders, before sitting down, on the other side of the tub—there for her, but not making her talk until she's ready, not insisting that she accept his efforts of comfort. They stay that way for another minute before she says, in a voice not quite her own, and so quiet that he nearly doesn't hear her: "I was ten years old."

Of course, he can only remain there, not responding—because there is no way to respond. They only remain there in silence, Ben in a motionless, choked support, Holly still trembling, and not quite present, in disbelief of everything: of the world, of herself.

At length, once time has begun to congeal into a sort of gel, she does stand up—wobbling on her unreliable legs—and almost slips, but regains her balance on her own before stepping out of the shower. Without daring to return his gaze, she passes by him and goes like a waif through the bathroom door, and out into the living room, laying down on the couch. He follows her there after a minute and finds her, curled up like a child—surely like the ten year old girl plaguing her mind, her memory—and staring off into space, blackly.

He lingers back in the doorway, afraid to frighten her, knowing there's nothing he can do, but forcing himself to ask , nevertheless: "What do you need me to do?"

For a long time she's silent. But then, as though it's the most difficult thing she's ever done, she accepts breath into her paralyzed, freezing lungs, and manages to say, just above a whisper: "Go to sleep."

He looks at her for a moment longer, before the feeling of horror and piercing sorrow begins to feel akin to a heart attack in his chest. Then he turns at last, knowing that he has no choice, and goes back to their bed. When he wakes in the morning, his pillow is damp with tears, and she's still sound asleep on the couch, the freezing water evaporated from her tight, exhausted body, the blanket draped over her almost like a burial shroud.

* * *

In the following days she climbs back into what might be perceived as a normal state of mind, but both of them know that what happened is impossible to forget. Finally, on a very early Saturday morning, out walking cautiously in a nearly empty park, she brooches the subject, knowing that he wouldn't dare to.

"That kind of intensity usually doesn't happen," she starts, diving in headfirst, and looking at him briefly to make sure he's caught up with her before continuing. "It's hard enough for you, I can tell, just seeing this run its course... I want you to know that you're doing everything right. If it doesn't seem like it's helping, then it's coming from my end and I'm-"

He gives her a severe look from under the shield of his sweater's hood, a silent reprimand for her near-apology. She bites her tongue, almost too hard, but not enough to draw blood, and makes an expression of digression, still getting into the practice of not saying she's sorry for the things she's not truly at fault for.

"... I need to know that," she continues at length, "if you need help because of this, you'll seek it out."

Wary of their surroundings, but deeming the coast clear, he steps closer to her, allowing her to follow suit, looking up at him as he nods the affirmative. "I promise," he says, and she knows he means it from his eyes, a world of weight lifted off of her shoulders.

And, indeed, Ben reaches out, days later, to Tom—on one of their usual catching-up calls, he reveals his worries, gently broaching the subject of Holly's trauma. In the end it's Tom who sets his mind at ease officially, sympathizing with the difficult situation, but suggesting—of course—that he only continue to be himself; he knows Ben's gentle, considerate and intuitive nature, and finally convinces him of his lack of reprehensibility.

* * *

As the summer draws to a peak and then subsides, closer and closer to the ever-feared end, Holly comes to bury herself in her writing. Often, she'll rise from bed in the middle of the night—full of energy, and humming with life beneath her skin, the life of the words that are on her side—because something will strike her, and she'll have to let it out in a torrent that can sometimes last more than an hour.

"Nearing the end?" Benedict asks one night when he's woken by the light pattering sound of the keyboard from the other room, and goes out to join her, sitting adjacent, and taking care not to unnerve her by watching her words take form across the screen.

"Yes, actually," she says with a light smirk, knowing how tortured he feels by her being bent on not letting him read a sentence of it while it's still in progress. "I might send it to you when it's done. If I'm feeling merciful."

On some nights, he will wake to quiet, finding her warmth still dissipating from her place in the bed, and will venture out into the living space to find that she's become lost down the rabbit hole, probing the underworld of philosophical scholarly essays and Freudian analysis of passages of literature. She'll groan, brought back to herself, and the fact of how easily she can be pulled off track by such things. "I love reading the dense stuff," she'll admit to him, throwing her hands up in the air and sometimes covering her face as he squints at the words on the screen.

"You need to have an in-depth literary discussion with Tom," he'll tell her. "He gets way over my head with this type of thing, but the two of you would be two peas in a pod."

"I'll come back to bed, now," she'll say, explaining how the computer, as a medium for her creativity, can sometimes become a hazardous distraction from her goals. "This is why," she'll say in jest, "writers before the electronic age were so much better— You can't distract yourself working with a typewriter or plain old pencil and paper." And he'll smile to himself secretly as they go back through the apartment to settle back into bed together, making a silent and joyously mischievous mental note to make a typewriter his next extravagant Christmas gift to her.

* * *

When the tension dispels at last, they're sitting in bed, Benedict absorbed in A Midsummer Night's Dream for his own entertainment, and Holly making the first round of revisions on a printed manuscript from the publishing house with a blue pen. She rubs some of the stray ink around on her fingertips until it gives off the illusion of being gone, and then yawns quietly, her whole body getting in on the act as her back arches and she places the hefty stack of papers on her bedside table. A gentle, relaxed physicality has fallen around her like a veil, and she leans over casually to kiss Ben on the cheek, as she does most nights.

He'd watched her movements before, the warm curl of her spine (inspiring an almost painful jolt of desire in him), the way her hair shifted of its own volition over her shoulder, the sleepy sound of her yawn. And now, darting out with a gentle persuasion, he turns his face and catches her lips just as she turns away from him—and she murmurs, "Fiend," against his lips with a smile, as she kisses him back.

Quickly, though, something grows between their cautious-moving mouths, and they both feel something new... feel that this may be what they've waiting for. All at once their bodies are attuned to their hearts, and Holly (she realizes, with a feeling of being filled with air, the feeling of floating upward like a balloon), suddenly, is not afraid anymore.

He says: "Do you know what you want?" stroking her bare back, daring to tease her breast with his other hand, making her draw in a slow breath.

"You," she answers, simply.

And that is all: she is handing over her trust to him just like that, and though he feels the true weight of it, it's a good weight, like a blanket. Something binding, and giving him trust in her, in himself, in the two of them as a functioning unit of love. Finally, now, she is relaxed with him; a subtle strength in her body, lending her control, and a long overdue understanding of the power she holds over herself, and of the situation she finds herself in. Simultaneously, though, it is admittedly glorious for Ben to feel the way she submits to his hands, the gentle coos his touches elicit as he opens and closes his mouth gently against hers, probes against her lips with his artistic tongue, a warm, safe steadiness radiating from his strong body.

He kisses her all over, drawing out gentle moans of arousal and redemption as his mouth trails down to each of her fingertips, and then plays its own game of connect-the-dots along the boundary of her ribs. When his tongue traces her hipbone, leaving a circle of dampness to catch the cool air circulating in the room, she cries out and it's the flesh of her thigh that muffles his satisfied laugh. The sound spurs him onward as her back arches instinctively against the blankets, and her hands go up to twist her hair around restlessly, his lips teasing a whimper and a sigh out of her as they grace her center carefully, and then attach themselves with a pressing tenderness to the nub of her pleasure.

She cries out in a subdued, partly muffled way, when his tongue begins to do its work, his hands stroking along the outsides of her legs, his fingertips sending a cool and hot awareness racing all over her body. Beneath the primal feelings he inspires, Holly finds her mind amazed and full of satisfaction: she feels no fear at all, after an initial jolt of concern that comes over her body instinctively at the feeling of his mouth between her legs. But now, she is loose and warm, and she wants to invite him into her—and there's a heightened sense of happiness at the knowledge that that's what he wants, too, and in a way that is the opposite of violent and manipulative.

He continues his gentle efforts, pressing down with his hands on her sides and drumming his fingers slowly, making her catch her lip between her teeth and clamp down on it, just shy of hard enough to draw blood, as her body is pushed through towards that uncertain place full of clashing darkness and light—a dangerous but trustworthy pleasure. He presses his tongue further into her, sharpening it, and after just a few more moments, she finds herself tumbling, black and blue stars swirling in rings around the border of her vision, blistering heavenly just beyond what she can see. Her body convulses of its own will, leaving her mind far behind, drawing it along slowly by a string, leaving her reeling at the sound of Ben just below her, and then the sound of him sitting up and bringing her towards his chest, vibrating with the humming sound of his own pleasure.

He bids her nestle into the crook of his neck and she does, getting her breath back slowly, at first in spastic breaths, and then slowing into hums of gratitude and a lingering, ever-heightening anticipation. He continues to bring her closer and closer, her limp lets draped around his waist, just out of reach of the hardness growing less and less tolerable in his pajama pants.

"Finally," he exhales into her ear after a moment, his hands affirming the grace and ability of her body, warm and steady against her back.

"Say 'at last' Benedict-" she sighs, barely feeling her own mouth move around her light words "-finally implies an ending."

"At last, then," he mutters obligingly, his teeth grazing the arch of her ear, making her hum and melt further into his firm chest. "I love your understanding of words. I love everything about you."

They kiss each other a bit longer, until her leg brushes against his sensitivity and she gaps lightly at the shudder it sends through his body, the gentle stiffness, the understanding that it's time... He puts on protection from his bedside table drawer and she—tentatively, but encouraged by the sharp, grateful groan it brings forth from his throat—helps him on with the lubricant. She blushes at his size and feels that center of herself grow warm with a clenching feeling of mingling excitement and worry, but he swears to her with his eyes that he will be gentle, implores her to tell him if it hurts. They fall back together on the bed, Holly thrilled by the feeling of her comparative smalless as he hovers over her, kissing, touching more, his hand traveling down between her legs, his cool fingers rubbing against her imploringly, making her sigh and nod.

"Do you want a pillow?" he says, slipping a finger into her and making her gasp, the sound echoed by a groan of his own at the sensation of her center gripping his narrow finger with its warmth—a promise of a true, imminent thrill.

"What?" she says, her voice gently high in trepidation.

"Trust me," he says with a smile against her cheek. And she does—he slips a soft pillow just beneath her hips, her back being forced to arch, sending his finger deeper into her, causing her to whimper and clutch herself against him, arms bending and pulling warmly.

The beginning of it comes slowly, softly, in a few subtle movements—her knees tugging themselves softly up to his sides, his length probing her entrance as their tongues mingle, both their bodies teetering on the edge of control. And then, encouraged by her gentle, fleeting fingertips against his cheekbone, pulling the curls of his hair around his ear ever so tenderly, he presses forward, helping to steer her with one hand around her back... At first, her body has a hard time accepting him, and a vague series of groans and hisses wrack her throat like a new song, as he slowly, slowly buries herself into the warm depths of her body—and, simultaneously, of her very soul.

And then, all at once, he stills, still and warm and filled with coursing power and elation on top of her, his body pressed to the greatest possible depth, so near to pain—but everything inside of her is relaxing, a tight warmth and comfort, a vague stretching that feels so, so sweet—and no fear. A tear slips out the corner of her eye, and he notices, their cheeks brushing past each other when he draws his face backwards to look into her eyes.

"Am I hurting you?" he whispers at the tear, kissing it away with trembling lips.

"The opposite," she sighs, her words slow and speaking gently of the depth and firmness of their connection.

Together, they move, tentatively at first, and then gaining force together, spinning off into a new world of sensation and intention, bodies obeying a higher order, each responding to the other's ever shift and exhale. They complete almost together, each tumbling in stages after the other, their bodies clenching in and out as one, her limbs ensnaring him, forcing him to remain atop her, even when he starts to move away, for fear of crushing her, his weight grounding her as she rides out the remnants of her body's pleasure. Everything is just right, there, between the two of them, a thrilling rightness. And nothing of the past infringes upon that pleasure and safety.

All either of them knows is that they want this to last forever. And in that exhausted quiet in the aftermath, between their shared gasps and overwhelmed, relieved chuckles and open, weak-mouthed kisses, they swear that they will make it so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh. I'm so happy for them. Some of that was really sad (that part was super hard to write, I'm really sorry), but in the end, things started working out okay, and will CONTINUE to do so (as far as I know right now—there just MIGHT be some more drama coming up ahead).
> 
> I don't usually consider love scenes one of my strong suits, and I hope this one floated your boat. I wanted to keep it pretty simple, so as not to overcomplicate the basic emotional aspects with too much detailed physical description... let me know what you thought, and how you felt about that method, so that I can keep doing what I'm doing, or shift things around to improve. There will definitely be more physicality in upcoming chapters, so things will change and perhaps get a bit more detailed as time goes on. Seriously, writing these things gives me such anxiety... I just never know if what I'm trying to convey is coming across. Feedback on this would be very, VERY appreciated.
> 
> Around the middle of the chapter after Holly's traumatic episode when she and Ben discuss how Ben should seek support, as well—that's legitimate, you guys. If you have a partner or good friend who is going through some tough stuff, it is always a good idea to seek out some support for yourself, as an individual. Helping someone recover from this sort of thing is a really big task, and you will only be able to do that better with some people backing you, at the same time. Never be afraid to reach out—even if it isn't to someone who is a professional psychologist. There is strength in numbers (when your teammates are chosen wisely).
> 
> Sorry again for the delay—I'm working my hardest to give you guys frequent updates. Please keep treating me to your wonderful feedback! I never get tired of it!
> 
> Une-papillon-de-nuit
> 
> 8 August, 2020


	15. Chapter 15: High Heels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a painful separation, Holly joins Benedict in Los Angeles for the premiere of Doctor Strange.

**Chapter 15: High Heels | Fall 2016**

**Holly**

Over the latter part of that torrid summer, we both realized the importance of holding each other for a long time after sex, or else a feeling of emptiness would get the better of me. But now that we're separated again by an ocean and seven hours of time, there's a new emptiness—one that cannot be sated, since he's so far away. After that night in the late summer, we'd been champing at the bit every night after to continue nurturing our newfound physicality—but now, the frustration is an extreme issue for us both, being separated. I try to masturbate, at first, but it's just not the same, and I always feel slightly nauseous after doing it—something about it just seems wrong; nothing can compare to Ben, so I end up waiting, and not touching myself. At all.

I've told Alex about the fact that Ben and I have started having sex, and she's doing her best not to get too overexcited about it. She's started—finally—to see Ben and I as a regular, functioning relationship, and has become much less of a fangirl over the past months, much to my relief. It seems that she's becoming more mature in general, as well, since she's involved in a relationship of her own, and starting to break away from the environment of instability that living on-campus had imbued her with. I've been staying with my aunt in her apartment, now, not in the dorm anymore, and Alex, likewise, is in an apartment, splitting rent between herself and five other people.

The new level of independence from the University campus is both thrilling and frightening for us both—and for me, it makes me much more exposed than I had been before, with the University security keeping the press out of my space. At the end of September, I get spotted walking from Columbia to central park, where Alex and I still run every afternoon on days when we're both free. It's not until later that evening when Ben calls to tell me, that I become aware of some pictures that had been taken during my on-foot commute, and posted online, sparking many comment threads all over the place, people immediately recognizing me as the young woman Ben had been spotted with in London over the summer, and earlier, in December of last year.

It's not too upsetting to me though, as I know being with him will include many instances like this, and so we agree, as usual, not to waste our time looking through the comments and gossip articles, instead focusing on when we will be able to see each other again. Ben has been traveling around the world in recent weeks, promoting Doctor Strange, and I've been in the middle of my studies, so he hasn't dared ask me to join him on the road. But when, at a miniature event in early October, a reporter asks him to comment on me, and why I'm not with him, our resolve starts to splinter; and I don't even care that we're using the press as an excuse.

We decide, at last, to meet up with each other, on a phone call the day before my birthday, when I'm trying to get in a bit of relaxation on my aunt's couch, and Ben is somewhere—sprawled out on a king-sized bed, I imagine—in a foreign hotel. Neither of us can handle being apart any longer, and he informs me that he will be 'settled down,' in a sense, in Los Angeles when mid-October rolls around, doing some last-minute promotions and interviews before the film's premiere. I immediately yield, though he makes no move to pressure me, and tell him that I will take a week away from school and meet him there. After all, I am in an easy spot with my studies, and wouldn't be under any added pressure to make up too many exams in the week after my return, if I did so.

I almost get away with purchasing my own ticket, before, when I think the call is about to come to an end, Ben insists on buying it for me, and I can hear the clattering of keyboard keys through the speaker as he starts in on the job as we speak.

"Ben," I groan, pushing my head back into the sofa cushion, "at LEAST book a red-eye. I can't stand these pricey seats."

"Duly noted..." he muses, tapping some more on his computer keys, and then sealing the deal with a final, punctuatory click. "The six o-clock flight, it is."

I feel my cheeks suffuse with a combative blush, and my legs kick up into the air of their own will, as they often do when my fiery side takes over. "You know," I say, "I'll be turning twenty tomorrow. You can't boss me around, anymore."

"Twenty?!" he exclaims dramatically. "Positively ancient."

I laugh, and when I hear his answering chuckle vibrate through the speakers, I have to stand up and walk around the apartment to ease the aching: I can't wait to have his arms around me.

* * *

I pack just a small bag, knowing that I'll just be in the hotel, or going around the city with Ben if he manages to pick up any precious free time, not packing anything fancy. Alex wishes me luck, and tells me to get lots of pictures of the city if I can. I know how badly she wants to live in Los Angeles at some point in her life, as she frequently talks about how interesting she finds the environment to be, from a psychological standpoint. Jokingly, I promise, "I'll type up a comprehensive report for you, doctor," and a part of me hopes that I might be able to do something of the sort for her, not liking the fact that to see Ben, I have to leave Alex behind in this way. But she really seems fine with it, and I know that she'll have many friends—not to mention her new boyfriend—to keep her company while I'm gone, so by the time she's waving me farewell through the back window of the cab taking me to the airport, my mind is at ease, and set solely on Los Angeles, and Benedict.

The flight goes smoothly as usual, though I do make a point of sending Ben a text before I put my phone on airplane mode, making sure he knows I'm not about to forgive him for the expensive ticket. The flight time is a welcome change after the usual seven hours. Though six hours is not much of an actual difference, an hour starts seeming a whole lot longer towards the end of the flight, when my excitement is starting to get too hot to handle.

I want him so badly, that by the time I get off the plane and claim my baggage, I'm already aroused; my whole body straining to get to the hotel as fast as possible. I feel a bit embarrassed about my body's extreme reaction to the anticipation, but eventually I just come to ignore that part of my mind. I can't WAIT to be with Ben—to kiss him, to look into those eyes, those elegant features of his face, to hug him, to touch him and to feel him touching me, in return...

There's a well-dressed man who Benedict had told me to expect, who holds up a sign with my name on it just past the baggage claim area, and he introduces himself very kindly as Daniel, insisting upon taking my bags for me, and then escorting me to the private car waiting at the curb, holding the door open for me and everything. He is the one to drive me to the hotel, keeping me company over the half-hour drive from LAX into the city—I've never been before, and there are some interesting sights to see. He lets me roll down the window and take in the smell of the new city; it's interesting to know that I'm on the west coast of the United States for the first time in my life. I hope that at some point during this visit Ben and I will have the chance to visit the beach...

My embarrassment takes the wheel again when my longing starts to get worse, and I'm plagued by an irrational feeling that Daniel—though he continues to help me hold an easygoing conversation about my studies and the books I like—can somehow sense my mounting arousal for Ben. I'm growing more and more anxious by the moment, and it's getting so intense that I almost want to whine every time we go over a rougher spot in the road. I feel a bit naughty, actually, in a really liberating way. I'm so sensitive that it's as though two months of refraining from touching myself are all putting themself into one place at one time, overwhelming me with desire—which is only strengthened by the knowledge of how soon I will get to fulfill it.

Two thirds into the drive, I can't stand it any longer, and I pull out my phone to text Ben. Not wanting to get too explicit, I only tell him that I can't wait to kiss him, the ache growing in my lower zone even as I type out the word. All my internal organs seem to flip over simultaneously, though, when Ben responds that he can't wait to do much, much more. A shiver rushes through my body and I have to convince Daniel not to roll the window up, since he thinks it's the cold, adjusting myself in the chair and telling myself I'll just have to wait this out, suppressing a whimper when we get stuck in LA traffic approaching from the South.

Finally, after another miserable ten minutes, Daniel drives the car up to the front of the hotel, the night air breezing through the entryway. He leaves the car there and I have to keep from sprinting through the glass doors when I see Ben through them, lingering casually in a pair of sunglasses near the reception desk, just a few strides away from the elevators. My legs start to tremble, already, and I have to keep my head down and not look at him, as Daniel escorts me through the door. I feel like I'm moving as slowly as a snail.

But then, all at once, I'm standing right in front of Ben, Daniel delivering me and my suitcase almost gingerly to him. "Thank you," Ben says to him, but his eyes are already affixed on mine behind the tinted sunglasses, making my stomach do cartwheels.

"Thank you-" I repeat, tearing my eyes away from Ben and smiling at Daniel, who had been so kind. And I think I see him smirk slightly as he nods, just before Ben pulls me away, taking my hand in his large one, which isn't occupied by carrying my suitcase, and practically dragging me at a jog towards the ascending elevator.

I can only hope that It's being called upward by someone on a floor above our own, because I don't want this to have to end, I don't' want to be with anybody but him, tonight; I don't even want to have to cope with a formal hello and goodbye. And I can tell he wants the same as he punches the button for our floor and swiftly catches me again, both his hands on my face. He looks at me almost religiously, causing my body to shudder and melt against his, as I know my blatant longing has reached his attention. "Holly," he breathes, looking into my eyes from his height.

"Benedict..." I sigh in response.

And with that he pulls me in at last, his lips first brushing tenderly against mine, eliciting a light moan from my loosening mouth, and then pressing more firmly in a kiss full of passion and longing, his tongue invading my mouth sweetly—a battle I want to lose. I can feel all the weeks of waiting cast behind me like broken shells, their contents now fueling my body, spurring me forward, weakening and empowering me in the best way possible. His mouth twisting into a beautiful, sly smile, he scrapes his thumbs gently over my raised nipples from the outside of my thin sweater, and I shudder and whimper against his teeth. He groans in satisfied return, the sound radiating through his chest and warming me straight to the bones. After a moment, when his lips leave mine for a sip of air, a thought pierces through my head like a dart and my hand rests on his chest, making him pause.

"Aren't there security cameras in these things?" I say breathlessly, our ten-inch difference in height forcing me to crane my neck to look up at him.

He chuckles at my words, and his eyelids droop slightly as he mumbles, "I had them disabled," and leans in for another kiss. But, boldly, I reach up and set a finger against his lips.

"You did not," I challenge gently, my entire body burning towards his, resisting the urge to pull myself up and wrap my legs around his waist.

"You're right; you caught my bluff," he admits after a moment, challenging my resolve with his voice and the gleam in his eyes when he looks down at me, curling the corner of his mouth upward in a grin.

He kisses me again—this time I don't protest, even playfully—more gently, but with a true, deeper intent, a warm and tender enveloping of my mouth, whose implications makes the place between my legs ache and yearn unbearably. "Oh... Ben, don't..." I manage weakly, in response to his lips, his tongue... He hesitates at my words, not sure whether to listen to them literally or not—he's always very cautious about such things with me—but now I have no time to kindle a moment of gratitude for his consideration in my chest. I take my words back as quickly as I can, by taking hold of his back again, kissing him with a great and tender force that makes him groan and tug at the hem of my sweater.

The elevator dings and we pull our bodies away from each other as soon as we can, waiting earnestly for the doors to open and let us out. When they do, it's a relief to find that there's nobody waiting for the elevator on this floor, and we have the hallway to ourselves as Ben picks up my suitcase and we both go down towards his door, stumbling over each other and trembling. My legs press together in their unsteadiness and I have to remind myself to breathe for the lightness of my head as he swipes his key card and we push and pull one another into the room together in a fit of passion.

He is the one to pull me further into the entryway at last, abandoning my suitcase by the door and shutting it with his foot, cornering me against the wall and kissing me again with ferocity, his hand gently reaching beneath my shirt and then grazing the waistband of my yoga pants. When his fingers slip beneath my underwear and touch the center of my anticipation, I almost yelp, my body arching towards his abdomen, a threatening shudder of relief and lingering need rolling up and down my spine. He, too, shudders and brings his face down to mine, resting his cheek against my own and breathing in my presence, just as I drink in his.

"This..." he begins in that deep tone which he knows makes me feel nothing short of tortured, giving my most sensitive folds a stroke. I whimper tightly, my jaw tightening against his cheek, making him breathe lightly, "...This, is very impressive."

"I couldn't, exactly, help it!" I fire back, with a little gasping laugh. But it's too late for playfulness, and in the next seconds, we've both stripped ourselves completely of our clothes, and I help him to roll on protection from his pocket ("Sly dog," I murmur breathlessly) before we end up sliding in our desperation onto the floor, without any determination left in us to make it to the bedroom before, with a considerate firmness, he presses forward into me, and we both become caught up in each other's bodies, settling so soon back into this rhythm we'd achieved months before.

He makes me feel so safe inside of my body, and I have no qualms at all, even though tonight, we're rougher than we've ever been before. We could always go to the bed, we both know, but there's something extremely erotic about this that I love, and I can tell from the energy pumping beneath his skin that he loves it, too: One of his arms wrapped completely around my waist to lift my hips up for him, his other arm steadying his weight so he doesn't completely crush me. But the balance lets his body stay flush to mine, warm and strong and dominating, and I love the weight of our new physicality, the real effort it takes out of me is exhilarating. Our desire is so great that he's deeper inside of my body than he's ever been before, making contact with my cervix more than once and making me cry out. He hesitates when I do, and he realizes what's happened, but it's a delicious pain, and when I moan, "Oh, my God, do it again..." he does, both of us sighing into each other's mouths as we ride out the waves of our fierce and long-overdue elation to the very end.

Afterwards he wants to wash me in the luxurious shower, and I let him. We make love a second time under the water, and then, absolutely drained and buzzing with endorphins, we settle on the sofa and sit quietly in each other's arms, admiring the view from the giant hotel windows, exhausted after the day and from our bodies' exertion. We barely make it to the bed before finally collapsing just shy of midnight there, in a tangle, looking out over the lights of the City of Angels.

* * *

When I wake, I'm the only one in the bed, and my initial instinct is to be concerned when I listen closely to the sound of the building around me and discern that Ben is not in the hotel room, at all. Quickly, though, when I'm pressing my face into my pillow and putting my hand out to where he would have been otherwise, I discover that he's left me a handwritten note in an elegant hand. I sit up with my legs crossed on the bed, and bend over it with a smile plastered on my face, my body aching from last night, but my mind and heart as happy as ever.

"So sorry," it reads, "some unexpected interviews came up. Room service will bring you anything your beautiful heart desires; I left the breakfast menu is on the bedside table. I'll be back by four—I'm taking you out to dinner, no arguments. Call me around eleven... I have a surprise for you. I wish I could have stayed to see you wake. I love you with my entire being. - Ben."

I get a wonderful, warm, melting sensation in my body and heart when I read it, and I sigh, reading it over again and smiling wider when I envision Ben sneaking around the hotel getting ready to avoid waking me. A spike of adrenaline hits my body and I'm suddenly very energetic and excited, feeling extremely alive and happier than I've felt in a while.

I do end up ordering some breakfast food, picking the least expensive items I can find, but still feeling completely full and satisfied by the service by the time I've finished the plate of toast and assorted fruits. After sorting through my suitcase, and poking around the—stunningly luxurious—hotel room for a while, I discover that the entire suite is hooked up with Bluetooth speakers that I can connect to my phone. I do so with a feeling of contentment and ease rising in my chest, playing some of my favorite seventies rock music and singing along, playing some air guitar and feeling completely free and childlike while I take another shower.

I have to be gentle with my body as I wash, and then as I dry and put on a new set of clothes: my back and shoulders ache from our excursion on the floor, my legs remain noodle-like, and the place between my legs is tender and prone to making me wince. But I don't mind the feeling, remembering the thrilling physicality that produced the aches and pains, and reveling in the lingering feeling of his touch, and the knowledge that I will have it again, soon. Waiting until four o'clock is starting to seem like a difficult feat, until I step out of the bathroom and notice the time, ten past eleven, on a clock on the wall, swearing to myself and hurrying to my phone, turning the music off and calling Ben, hoping that he won't be worried by the delay in my calling him, as he'd requested in his morning note.

"I'm so sorry," I apologize nervously before he can speak first. "I'm ten minutes late."

"Holly!" he exclaims gently, but with an edge of sincere authority in his voice that makes my shoulders snap to attention. "Stop apologizing, lovely," he continues, more cautiously than before. "You did nothing wrong. But... I WAS starting to worry that you'd slept in."

"Until eleven?!" I object.

"Don't try to tell me you haven't before."

"Alright..." I yield with a sigh and a simper, throwing myself down on a chair by the window, instantly regretting it as I wince and hiss, standing up again quickly.

"Did something happen?" he asks worriedly.

I smirk to myself and say, honestly, "You really worked me over last night."

His dark chuckle is enough to make excitement prickle in my lower abdomen, and it only worsens when he says, "That's what I'm here for, is it not?"

I whimper a little despite myself and say, weakly, "Stop, you know what that tone does to me. Distract me, quickly!"

He laughs aloud at my tone, and I have to cover my hand with my mouth, happy that I could make him laugh out loud in such a way. We both giggle and chuckle uncontrollably for a minute, so happy at being so near to one another that nothing else in the world matters, and we're totally overcome with carefreeness and glee. At last, though, the laughing dies down and he clear his throat, putting on a more sincere tone. "I think I have the perfect distraction," he says, without a trace of seductive intent. He pauses for dramatic effect and then says, simply, "Do you want to attend the premiere with me?"

For a moment I'm stunned into silence at his words, and then a little sound of confusion escapes my lips, halfway between a stuttering croak and a gasp. My surprise is boundless; I hadn't thought for a moment about being on the red carpet with him, only considering that he wanted me in LA for my company. I thought I would only be staying undercover in the hotel the whole time.

"Only if you're comfortable, of course," he amends quickly. I can tell from his tone that, as usual, he doesn't want to pressure me, and that he knows how huge a step this would be for me, and for us both. But I can also tell that he would love to have me with him—and a part of me really, truly wants to join him, to celebrate his latest huge accomplishment. But my other half is completely horrified at the concept. I try to reason with that part of myself, though, knowing that this was going to have to happen sooner or later, knowing how difficult it would be for us both to move forward if I said no, and, worst of all, envisioning Ben alone on the red carpet in two days, when I could so easily be there, helping him to keep calm in front of the press, keeping him company.

So, with this reasoning, knowing that there have been candid pictures of us caught together before, but ready to take the next step, officially and publicly, to claim my role as his partner in crime, I draw a breath of strength into my lungs and then say, knowing it's the closest thing to the truth, "Ben, I would love to go with you."

I hear his sigh of relief and gladness come over the speaker and, though my stomach is roiling at the thought of being in the public eye in so short a time, I know I've made the right decision. Quickly, though, my mind rushes to become devil's advocate, and I shake my head a little. "But, Ben," I say, suddenly realizing something, "I didn't bring anything suitable for that caliber of social event."

"That's why," he says, as though he's been expecting this, which I'm sure he actually has been. "I left my card for you to go and get something for yourself."

I groan in protest but end up following his directions to locate where he'd put it. "You have to let me pay, myself," I tell him, in a last-ditch effort not to let him spend any money on me. But he doesn't let me leave without taking it with me, saying it's just in case, and that he hopes I end up changing my mind. "What are YOU going to wear?" I ask.

"A black suit. Why?"

"I have to match you, silly," I say with a grin, wishing that, at that moment, I could get up on my tiptoes and kiss him. My stomach sinks a little knowing that he's not right here with me, but quickly the sadness is replaced knowing that he's still in the same city, and that we'll see each other later this evening.

An hour later I gather myself up, bringing my own money and putting on my comfortable walking shoes with my yoga pants and long sleeved shirt, taking a pair of sunglasses just in case—a habit that is slightly odd to me, but is slowly becoming more normal as time goes on. Daniel is waiting outside the hotel just as Ben said he would be, knowing just where to take me to shop. Ben told me to call him if I need anything, but I hope against myself that this won't take too long, and that I'll be able to find a simple black dress and then get out of there quickly.

But I forget about that plan of attack when I get inside the store, a simple-looking facade from without, but within, a very elegant and chic environment that draws me in. And the moment a woman comes to guide me around the various hanging rods and dressing rooms, her mannerisms so considerate and friendly, I am totally lost to the sheer fun of it. I don't even think about money, and all the nervousness from before just drains away as I strike up friendly conversations with the woman helping me, and she talks circles around me with her knowledge of fashion—which, in this environment, and with her amazing passions, seems suddenly not so dull and foreign as I had thought just minutes ago.

"This... is something really, really special," she says to me, quite confidentially, after time has come to a place where I'm not sure whether it's only been minutes or an hour, and I really don't mind either way. She has led me into one of the back rooms of the store, seeking something out that will 'suit me perfectly' as she says, and it seems from the brightening in her eyes, as she pulls an elegant looking black dress from the rod, that she's finally found just the thing.

Most of the other black dresses she'd had me try on made me feel like I wasn't quite tall enough, or didn't have enough curves in the right places for the way the fabric hung, or the hem. But this one, when I put it on, is something perfect for my shorter height, and accentuates my body in a way that I deeply appreciate—it's surprising to me when I look in the mirror and see that I really, truly, do look good in it—I've never worn a dress like this before, one that I can actually feel confident and mildly beautiful in, ever.

"Yep. That's definitely the one," she says to me, after seeing the spark of amazement in my eyes.

But the fairytale spell of the woman and the endless dresses of comfortable fabrics and beautiful designs shatters when I finally proceed to purchase the dress and realize just how much money it actually costs. My jaw actually loosens and I feel my heart stop and start again when I see the numbers, and realize that the credit card in my hand—my own card—is simply not going to possibly suffice.

"Just a moment, please," I say to the person at the desk, the back of my jaw clenching as I shake my head and dial Ben's number in a flurry of annoyance, but also a little bit of amusement and love that always comes with calling him, even in a situation like this.

"Hello," he greets me when he picks up the phone.

But I don't give him a chance for formalities. "Ben." I say, not letting him guess as to my feelings about this outrageous price. "This is ridiculous."

"Please, Holly," he says, and I can tell he's concealing a fair amount of amusement. "Let me pamper you. Just this once?"

I know that I won't be able to pay for this dress by myself in a thousand years, and I also know that this is just the sort of dress I really do need for a red carpet event. Feeling completely cornered I at last yield with a gruff sigh. "I'm going to hold you to that 'just this once' bit," I tell him, feeling genuinely choked up, not knowing how to feel about this ridiculous price. Just before I swipe the credit card I draw a big breath into my lungs, and have to deliberately keep from clenching my eyes shut to avoid looking childish in front of the cashier.

I stay on the phone with Ben throughout the process, and after I've gotten back outside with my sunglasses on, holding the package with the dress inside it tightly to my chest and hurrying into the back of the personal car as though I've just committed a robbery, he chuckles and says "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

As Daniel pulls away from the curb and I settle down into the seat, setting the package with the dress beside me so that I can almost forget about that terrible moment of tension I'd felt holding the card in my hand, I almost have to agree with him. "I guess not," I admit with an edge of contempt that makes him chuckle again. I can tell that there's something he's hiding, and I raise my eyebrows to myself. "What is it?" I ask, not wanting to think of what his almost devilish chuckle might entail.

"Well..." he says mischievously, simultaneously making my nerves jump and my heart sink. "I'm recollecting the contents of your suitcase and... You're going to have to get shoes, too."

"Benedict." I say darkly. "How dare you." Because I know he must have been planning this all along, as Daniel is already starting to drive me in the direction opposite the hotel, and a conspirators look is in his eye in the rearview mirror.

"While I must admit that you wearing your converse under a designer dress sounds fantastic in more ways than one," Ben says gently, "I can't abide it."

"Dammit!" I hiss. I lean forward in the car and say, "I'm hijacking your mental map," to Daniel, knowing that Ben has probably told him ahead of time to take me to some crazy high-end place. "Take me over there, please," I continue, pointing to a mall nearby where I can see there will be a shoe store with much more reasonable prices.

For a moment I see a battle play out on Daniel's face between following the directions already given to him ahead of time and listening to me, now, and in the end I win out over Ben, and he nods his agreement, steering over into the lane to turn into the mall and let me out. I stay on the line with Ben the whole way, picking out a basic pair of four-inch heels. He demands that I use his card to buy these, as well, and I have to admit that I start getting a little upset, feeling extremely conflicted, not wanting to make him feel bad since I can tell he likes making these sorts of purchases for me, but also having a very hard time overcoming my very frugal nature.

"If you have to," he says, just as I'm about to swipe the card, "think of it as a birthday gift, sweetheart."

I huff in exasperation and swipe the card at last, almost violently, before thanking the very confused cashier and hurrying out of the store, making my way back through the mall with my sunglasses on. "Yeah, a twenty grand, first printing of Great Expectations for Christmas and a designer dress and heels for my birthday. You're incorrigible" I hiss into the phone, genuinely upset and not knowing how I should possibly react to all of this, the box of new shoes seeming extremely heavy in my hand. I've heard other young women at college, in Alex's social circle, talk about how easy it is for them to swipe a credit card, and how it gives them a sense of release to shop sometimes. But I've always felt the opposite, even with my own personal card. It usually feels like the most difficult and conflicting thing I've ever had to do when I pay for something that isn't an absolute necessity, and using Ben's money makes the load feel all the worse. I hate the feeling of guilt, even though I know this kind of money is just a drop in the well for him.

"I hope you manage to cool yourself down by the time we go out for dinner tonight," he says to me chidingly, only slightly joking, but I can hear a note of sincerity in my voice. I feel ice fill up my veins as I remember how he had left a message about taking me to dinner (no arguments) in his note this morning, and I almost want to collapse from exhaustion and confliction when I consider just how expensive THAT would be sure to be.

I'm about to argue with him when I hear him say something to somebody on the other end of the line, and another voice responds in a lower key in the background. I hear Ben mutter something again, and then a moment later he's back to me, sighing as though he's just been let down. "It looks like you win this one," he says, "An impromptu meeting has just been scheduled and I won't be able to make it back in time for the reservation I made." I smile a little to myself at the minor victory, but then, before I can feel any bit of the relief at this knowledge, he interjects, slyly, "For now, Holly. I'm going to reschedule, I think, for the night after the premiere."

"Ben." I say, through gritted teeth, really getting upset now walking faster as I hurry through the mall. "No."

"Holly," he retorts, trying to keep his voice light. "Yes. ...Please, can we drop this money issue? You really, really, don't need to worry about it."

Part of me wants to argue but I'm tired of it. "Fine," I say.

But soon the threateningly icy feeling between us fades away again, and we're bantering back and forth comfortably in our usual manner all the way through the mall and out to the car again, Ben baking sure that I'm safe with Daniel before ending the call and heading into another interview. I get off the phone with him and shake my head to myself, giving off an aggravated huff. I see Daniel smiling a little bit by way of the rearview mirror, trying to keep his amusement private, eyes focused on the road.

"What are you laughing at?" I say lightly.

"Nothing, Miss," he says, coyly, and snickers good-naturedly a little before smiling at me with a light smirk, solidifying himself in my mind as an ally.

* * *

He gets home around six instead of the previously expected four, and we have food brought up by room service in the hotel, enjoying a very nice meal in front of the windows looking out at the city lights. After we've eaten, we go to the beach together, keeping it undercover as we walk barefoot through the ebbing waves, the water cool and joyous when it hisses at my ankles against the sand. Still, there's a sense of oddness in me, knowing that this will be the last night I ever have without pictures—close-up and very intimate ones, at that, bearing my absolute identity to the public—existing of me on the internet, in a permanent and very exposed manner. Ben can sense my anxieties, and though he doesn't say anything outright to calm me, not wanting to heighten my anxiety, I know from the way he holds my hand, the way he kisses the top of my head, that he understands: that he will be by my side the whole way, and that it's never too late for me to take back my agreement to go with him.

And though there are a few times the next day when I'm sitting alone in the hotel and he's still out doing interviews, that I seriously consider doing just that, I do end up going with him that night. We dress separately and then meet in the main area of the hotel room. Ben has a very kind and very obviously gay man over to do our makeup; he does Ben's and then works with me, being elaborate and joyful in everything he does, but also extremely down to earth and kind, sensible-minded, unlike what I would have expected from somebody working in makeup. He gives me countless compliments on my bone structure, laughing with me and really helping to set me at ease. Then, he leaves and I hear Ben thanking him outside as he leaves, and I stare at his impressive work in the mirror for a few minutes, happy to see that I still look very much like myself, just more drawn-out and heightened for the lights, before I head out of the bathroom to join Ben, working hard not to teeter in the high heels.

He's standing there in the most dapper classic black suit I've seen in my life, and I know that even the makeup has no hope of keeping the extreme blush on my face from showing through as I admire the look of his face, his height, his build. I have to pretend to swoon overdramatically just to lighten the moment, and, gratefully, he chuckles with me as I cross the room to him. He takes my hand and kisses the back of it, bowing to me, unexpectedly. "My Lady," he says in an egregiously posh tone, before drawing himself up again and smiling at me with such a look in his eyes that I know he must be looking at me in the same way I was just looking at him—a thought that makes me feel like I'm on cloud nine, somewhere in a different universe—which might not be such a long shot, given the film we're on our way to see.

I curtsy back, mimicking his comedic high-class gesture, saying, "Monsieur."

"Look at you," he says with a happy grin when we've both drawn ourselves back up to our regular heights. "You'll have them all fooled." And I realize that he's referring to my change in height, due to the heels. I now come up to his ear, rather than to just above his shoulder, which is my height compared to his when we're both in our stocking feet.

"You're the only one who gets to watch me shrink four inches when we return here tonight," I say, wanting to give him a kiss on the cheek, but not daring to risk ruining either of our faces, since the man's work had been so impeccable and considerately done.

"I am looking forward to that very, very much," he says, with a thrilling promise in his eyes, and he gently kisses me on my temple before drawing back. I want to hug him and bury my face in his neck. But for now, we have other business to attend to.

He puts an arm out for me to take and I do, beaming up at him as we leave the hotel room, headed for the elevator and the city beyond, ready to take on the world, together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter, "High heels," may have seemed a bit random, but I did select it intentionally. Not only for that cute little moment with the heels at the end of the chapter, but also for the symbolism: though Holly Is increasingly comfortable and happy with Benedict, she's simultaneously stepping into some pretty serious shoes. Adapting to his lifestyle will soon shape up to be a lot more difficult than just a few film-premiere photographs and a designer dress. And I'm thinking this issue with the two of them and money is not going to just amount to one or two petty arguments... We shall see where that goes.
> 
> I'm sorry that there was no Benedict POV in this chapter—next chapter will probably be all or mostly his POV. I just felt that there was a lot Holly needed to say before we could really move forward safely in the story without any doubts as to her feelings.
> 
> I still feel so honored to be writing for you guys, and I sincerely appreciate your patience as I work through some of this personal stuff! This ridiculous delay was due to the fact that I really needed to hunker down and write out a plan for the rest of this story. The good news, is that I now have a tentative layout that gets us from this point, to the present-tense, In July of 2020! Updates will be a little shaky, still, but not quite THIS long in arriving. Please reach out and let me know how you feel! I don't bite, I swear!
> 
> Une-papillon-de-nuit
> 
> 13 August, 2020


	16. Chapter 16: London Lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben, Holly, and Tom reunite in London for the winter holidays...

**Chapter 16: London Lights | December, 2016**

**Benedict**

Though it only lasted a few hours, my mind continues to return to that magical and exciting night for many weeks afterward. There was a sense, being there, that we were both on the cusp of something entirely new, still in midair after the risky jump from the high diving board, before hitting the water, the thrill of lessened gravity in our hearts and smiles. Everyone there was so excited to see Holly with me on the red carpet; and in subsequent nights, the internet was undergoing a Cambrian period of its own over the photographs of us together. Holly was graceful through and through—a quality I admired greatly, for I was the only one who knew how truly nervous she was underneath—and was easygoing and friendly to everyone I introduced her to. I was overjoyed, too, to notice how some of the other celebrities there were gladdened by the way she treated them, without getting overly starstruck, and they were all extremely interested in her, kind and down to earth, helping to make her feel included and accepted despite the stress of the lights and the press. But, on a fundamental level, the real thrill came from the fact of her existence next to me: she outshines everyone, to me; her beauty radiating a fierce and glorious power, even though she chose to keep quiet and not to speak to any of the press, a decision I condoned.

Before that night, when we were both already in Los Angeles and I had some downtime between interviews, but not enough to return to the hotel for a time, I had gone out and bought her—in a sort of foolish but giddy spell—a little string of pearls, which I thought she might like to wear to the premiere. But at the last minute, I'd decided against giving them to her, since we'd already been arguing about money, and I didn't want to upset her right before what was intended to be a fun night for us both.

I kept the pearls, though—I still have them—wanting to give them to her at some other time, but knowing how important it will be for me to take caution when giving her gifts, spreading them out over longer periods of time so that she might be the frog in the slow-boiling pot of water, rather than the frog dropped into an already-hot pot... For lack of a better comparison. I consulted Tom shortly after the premiere and had decided, with his help, to save the pearls for Valentine's day: a decision he had made sure I would follow through with, especially after I admitted to him that I've bought a typewriter for Holly as a Christmas present. I knew instantly that he was right about how completely two such expensive gifts would throw my darling into a panic, so I keep the pearls, still, in a secret place in the sock drawer, awaiting the proper time.

In the two months following that October night in Los Angeles, the both of us have had to deal with more and more pressure from the press; especially since, now, people recognize Holly around campus and (though she's reluctant to admit such things) I know she's been getting some negativity from a few jealous young women in some of her classes. Most of the pressure, though, is regarding her age—people get really rude about it in various comment threads and in articles—meaner than they've been about anything else I've ever been involved in, and I would be lying if I said it didn't upset me more than a little bit.

We've shared a few angst-ridden phone calls, especially during those early weeks, when we both experienced some emotional setbacks and moments of wariness and concern that sent our minds down thousands of terrible tangents. But the moment we were on the phone again, swaddled in the warmth of one another's voices, it was as though none of that negativity existed at all: everything outside of the two of us has a way of resolving itself immediately, evaporating in the warmth of what we know to be true, what we know to matter more than anything else in the world. Our souls are the same age, even if our bodies are not.

And, oh, how my body misses hers...

Through the month of December, I'm in Boston filming The Current War while Holly finishes up her studies in New York before planning to come over to London again for Christmas. There's a second section of filming in London on the exact same day as the filming in Boston wraps, so there's no opportunity for me to take a short flight to New York to see her, which is terribly aggravating—but, as she reminds me in her calm but empathetic tone later, something that we will both have to become accustomed to (even though it seems as though we've been saying that to each other all our lives, now, but still haven't made an inch of progress towards that goal). Perhaps it's a good sign: perhaps becoming indifferent would truly be a sin, as I love her so much. So I let a bit of that aggravation keep in my chest, on the flight from England, feeling her physically grow further and further from me, across the sea.

She's terribly stressed in the final days before the end of her semester and the subsequent flight out to London which I've had arranged. She has no qualms about leaving her aunt, who has adopted a safe circle of friends from Rehab who she has started spending time with again, getting more safely social than she has been in decades. Holly tells me with a note of relief that they will be hanging out together over the holiday season, keeping her aunt effectively occupied and distracted from any temptations that may show up. She tells me that she thinks it might even be good for her aunt not to have her niece hanging around.

But on our very next call the change of tone is extreme and so quick that for a moment I feel as though something must have gone wrong in my brain. Quickly, however, I find after listening to her that vice-versa is closer to the truth. She tells me, disturbed and slightly shaky, that something really weird had happened to her in class that day: she'd been feeling very overwhelmed, and had suddenly forgotten the entirety of a book she was writing a paper on; such a lapse in knowledge that, for a moment, she'd felt as though she hadn't known where she was, even. She'd been forced to go through the entire day without any progress on a paper—which, she told me, was better than having been forced into a situation where this sudden stutter of her brain resulted in a blank examination sheet. It's a freaky incident and I can tell she's disturbed by it, maybe even a little more than she's letting on. But we're both sure after some joint research while still on the phone that it had just been as a result of some stress and lack of sleep. I try to convince her to take a pill, if she has to, but I can tell by the way she tells me she will, that she won't. And for that last week before her arrival, a certain part of me consistently strains out to her, hoping that some tendril of my existence might help to buoy her up in some way until we can finally meet again, and my physical arms can take over the task of comforting and strengthening her.

She calls me just before getting onto the plane, a few days later, when I've spent the day readying the apartment for her, smiling and almost giddy at the utter unnecessary nature of a guest bedroom. Her voice sounds so tired and droopy, especially through the speakers, with the sounds of the airport buzzing in the background, that I can't wait to hold her in my arms.

"I..." she says, yawning (her speech is interspersed regularly with them), "...Really should get some shuteye before I land." (Yawn.) "I think I'll just put some..." (Yawn) "Enya in my earbuds and just try to zone out, for..." (Yawn) "my own good."

"Aren't you a little young for Enya?" I say jokingly, matching the softness of her stone so as not to sound too brittle and animated to her exhausted ears, but determined to make sure she doesn't fall asleep before getting safely onto the plane—something I don't find unlikely at all.

"Don't go there," she says, almost in a sigh, too exhausted to summon up any of her usual fire.

"Sorry," I tell her, feeling genuinely bad for the tastelessness of the joke: the press has certainly been 'going there' nonstop for the past months.

But there's no apology needed, and by the time she's finally on the plane and we hang up, I get a slightly humorous inkling that this is mostly because, when she wakes up again, she won't remember it at all.

* * *

I'm more than thrilled when, upon her arrival downstairs, she jumps up into my arms and wraps her legs around my waist, gasping in her relief, as I do, in mind, as our lips finally meet. We kiss gently, and slowly her body slides down mine until her feet meet the floor again. We've already decided not to have sex right away; to prolong it until later. But we don't shy away from a very long kiss and embrace, both of us becoming more than a bit teary at finally being back; looking into each other's eyes, finally feeling at home again.

We just stand there in the entryway area, her shivers from the freezing weather outside gradually ebbing as my body heat ripples out to her, embracing with no awkwardness or hurry at all, because we know there is nowhere else in the world we should be but right here, and there's oh so much lost time to make up for.

After a while we do separate, Holly consenting—thank God—to let me carry her suitcase up the stairs for her. I tell her, while she takes her clothes from the suitcase and puts them into a dresser drawer, that my parents are also staying in their house in London for the season this year, but they're having a day together today, so we will have to meet them (on their specific orders) tomorrow or later in the week. Tom, however, is also in London, and is dreadfully alone in his apartment, and she agrees happily to go and see him.

"By the by..." I add, before we've left the apartment. "You're not allergic to dogs, are you?"

* * *

"Welcome to the abode, you impertinent lovebirds... Bobby, down... How could you neglect me for so long?" Tom grins at us as he opens his apartment door wide, letting us through, his small dog Bobby repeatedly pouncing at Holly's legs.

"Tom," Holly retorts, dropping to her knees and quickly befriending Bobby, "you should know taht I've been in London all of thirty minutes."

"Precisely!" he says, giving me a hearty pat on the back. "Thirty minutes is a long time!"

She laughs and stands up suddenly, Bobby sitting beside her ankle happily. All at once, from the speed, she goes slightly pale, and almost stumbles a little in dizziness. I catch her arm on instinct, but she shakes her head. "Sorry, I think I need to sit down. I'm feeling really weird after the plane, for some reason."

For a moment I think back to what she told me before, about her frightening lapse in memory during class, and make a mental note to ask her about it later, a part of me slightly worried that she might be overstressed with her work. But after another moment she seems to normalize again, and I know that any stress which has been burdening her recently will soon dissipate as we settle into the holidays together at last.

Tom leads us from the foyer area of the apartment into the giant room dedicated to all types of entertainment: a VCR player (just one of many old pieces of technology that Tom loves to use) and television positioned against the wall, and a giant built in bookshelf wrapping around the rest of the room, absolutely packed from wall to wall. For me, it's a usual sight, but Holly is instantly dumbstruck by the awesomeness of Tom's personal library. It doesn't escape his notice and with a chuckle, as he sits down on the couch, he says, "You're welcome to any of them. But be gentle with the Tolstoy, please."

She turns around and stares at him with stunned, excited eyes, before turning back to the bookshelf and brushing her fingertips gently against the spines of the books. I love the wonder she brings to everything in life, and watching her in such a simple act I feel my heart grow a little bit

"Careful, Tom," I say in jest, "you'll steal her away from me."

"If anything's going to steal me away," she retorts playfully, "It'll be these beautiful books." She tears her gaze away from the spines of a collection of Gabriel Garcia Marquez's work, and looks around at me with a slight bit of suggestive coyness in my eyes. It makes me want to lunge over and grab her and push her up against the bookshelf... and I know she knows it. But Tom is there, and I also know how averse both of them would be, even in theory, to engaging in sexual activity in such dangerous proximity to such precious hardcovers.

Holly smirks slightly, keeping her amusement just to a small corner of her mouth, so that it remains just between us, and I stare hard at her, making a light blush rise on her cheeks, before she turns around again and continues examining the books. Tom's collection is extremely impressive: some very old collectibles take the places of top honor, and especially his Shakespeare and Tolstoy are of notable value.

"May I?" she says to him when she comes upon a particularly large and old volume, with the spine so worn that the title is undecipherable.

"Go ahead," Tom says in response, a note of amusement in his tone that makes her even more curious.

With the utmost carefulness, she removes the book from the shelf, balancing it against her ribcage for its size and heaviness as she carefully turns over the fabric hardcover.

"What is it?" I whisper in Tom's ear, so quiet that she can't hear.

"Tolstoy," he responds under his breath, "War and Peace in the original Russian."

And it's only a few more seconds before Holly discovers this by her own powers of deduction, accusing Tom of the unimaginable, and then gasping, eyes going wide when he confirms her suspicions. "Oh, my God, Tom!" she gasps, looking through the pages carefully, turning each one and more than once lowering her nose into the binding of the book to inhale the scent of the old paper.

"Can you read Russian?" she asks after a moment.

"I wish," Tom answers. "But now that you've reminded me of it, I'm going to be forced to start working on it again..."

It warms me to know that Holly and Tom have so easily grown this close. Once, when I make my way into the kitchen to bring out glasses of water, I overhear them talking in the living room, and Tom is sure to tell her that he sees her as an extension of myself, and so, she is always welcome with him in a time of need. We spend the remainder of the evening watching one of Tom's tapes: of an old production of Macbeth that has Holly on the edge of her seat. And with her there, I'm overcome completely with a peace the likes of which I always seem to forget when she is gone, but which returns to me now as though it had never left; as the sun returns to the earth after we have endured the night.

* * *

When we return to the apartment, though, everything suddenly seems silent and dark. Outside the windows dusk has fallen and an ashy snow has started to drift down from the sky. We're both chilly, and there's a sort of odd tension between us which there never has been before, which is especially strange since we'd both been so eager when she first arrived earlier. But we know not to force it, and we don't do anything at first, changing into warm clothes and laying down together, spooning on the bed under the covers, silently waiting for the right moment to arrive.

After a time, though, something seems to force her to speak, and she rolls onto her other side to face me, propping herself up on her forearms. "I was wondering..." she says, in a tone that I can tell causes her great effort in its casualness. "...if we could try something new."

I lift an eyebrow, prompting her to go on, and she explains her intentions slowly, glancing between my eyes and the sheets, which her fingers tousle and then smooth over, tousle and then smooth over nervously. And slowly, what she's requesting takes form. She tells me with the smallest possible measure of pain from the memories, how her father would never rape her anally. He was a homophobic, she explains, and connected anal sex to gay men solely, so never once dared to it to her. And at the bottom of it all, she's been wondering if I would be alright with experimenting with that with her. She wants to probe new territory with me, which her father never scarred.

Once she's finished, I gently press on the tear rolling down her cheek, and tell her that, of course, my answer is yes. With her, anything with her, my answer is always, always yes; and I doubt that will ever change.

Swaddled in the warmth of the bed, we kiss with a tender, probing caution. I tell her that I want her to know that I'll be thinking about her, and only her, the whole time. I know other men may imagine different women when they don't face her partner, but I know it would be impossible for me to be anything apart from completely present with her.

We take our clothes off slowly, button by button, stitch by stitch. The room is chilly, heightened by the snow drifting past outside the window, but our bodies form a safe haven of warmth, the friction of fabric against skin bolstering us onward. I feel, after all this time, as though I'm discovering her body for the first time, again; it's a magical sensation, she is so warm and small, supple yet mighty in a quiet way.

Just before, I massage her shoulders to help her relax, and I sit back against the headboard while she slowly guides herself over me, facing away, her hand gripping mine, as though she's in danger of falling upward into outer space. I kiss the back of her neck with a weak, open mouth as she arches reactively: I can't get enough of the way her body caves and swells, dips and molds to mine, even in this unfamiliar and electric position. It takes a few long moments, which we both savor, through all of their gentleness, and the slight discomfort on her part that comes with the incredible newness—but eventually, I am completely inside of her, and we both sigh, her back relaxing, pressing gently back against my chest. I can feel the depth beneath her gasping silence.

Another moment, and then we are moving, as I press her gently forward, both of us moving together as though we are one; a slow rotation of knees and limbs, never separating, until we are laid down across the bed. Her fingers curl and grip the blankets, her gentle hips arched slightly to meet me. I can feel her body exhausting itself of its reserves, trembling as we both move, the warmth growing between her fluid back and the warm solidness of my chest. It's an amazing moment of unification; I hold her hands, slipping my fingertips in between her fingers and clenching gently, and I take special care not to crush her. My cheek rubs alongside hers and I kiss her ear as she sighs and shudders in her effort. I snake a hand beneath her, around her silken side and to her warm center, pleasuring her there, spurred onward into a gentle, rhythmic pressing when she whimpers at my ministrations.

When she comes, she moans loudly, almost screaming into the sheets, sending me over the edge soon after her. After a gasping moment, she turns herself over weakly, her eyelids drooping down, and we make love a second time, her legs lifted like the inverted wings of a beautiful bird as we moan softly together, like two doves, safe from the snow. I feel a tear slip out of my eye, and she cries, too: the love too dense between us to be bearable.

Everything that has ever happened makes sense.

* * *

In the morning, I wake first, and lay beside her with my eyes open, tracing the lines of her restful face, illuminated by the white light streaming in from the window, filtering through the fast-falling blizzard of snow. She wakes up a minute or so afterward, with a little groan, her body shifting partway before she winces and opens her eyes, giving me an effortful smile. I kiss the tip of her nose dryly and gently, and she smiles again, admitting, "I don't think I can move. You've disabled me."

"I'm sorry you're hurting," I say, tucking a stray lock of her hair behind her ear, a true pinch of guilt twisting at my stomach at the thought of her feeling pain.

She smiles, though, a dose of mischief in her glittering eyes, and she says, "I'm not sorry," suggestively, nibbling at her lip.

"I love you, you little imp," I murmur, kissing her lips before shifting my weight carefully from the bed, so as not to make her shift uncomfortably. "I'll go get you something."

* * *

During the rest of the morning, we go to visit my parents in their apartment, and then Holly, struck by a wave of inspiration, remains there with them for a few hours to write her book (she's nearing the end, on one of the final chapters, and I can't help but look forward to the day when she'll let me read it) in a refreshing setting, while I go to visit Tom alone.

We sit down on the couch to watch a film we've been trying to see together for a while, settling into a comfortable quiet where be both feel completely open and accepting, without any inhibitions or requirements to be talkative. But after the film has ended, and Tom is rinsing out the bowl of popcorn he'd made earlier, he brings up a topic that I never thought we'd come to discuss—or rather, that I had yet to discuss with myself in my own mind.

"So, what are you thinking... about moving forward, with Holly?" he says casually, but the words wrought with levels of complexity and implication—it's the type of tone that might come close to aggravating me if it came from anyone apart from Tom, who always has a way of putting the most abrupt and stringent topics to words in a sensitive way. "It's okay if you don't know, yet, but if you do, I'd really like to, too. It's obvious you love each other. I've never seen you happier with anyone else, ever. So... where do you want to take this?"

At first, I don't think about it much. I say something about not being sure yet, and then we move on to talk about other things before I leave to pick up Holly and take her to the park for a stroll we've been planning. But then, like seeds, Tom's words grow, and I begin to find myself considering what he said more and more, as the days leading up to Christmas go on...

I love doing everything with Holly: going on walks, jogging in the mornings, watching movies, reading books, watching her read my latest prospective script and helping me to prepare for an upcoming audition, dancing to music. I love watching her write, love the way she talks about literature, the way she and Tom get into arguments pitting literary titans of the past against each other: Milton versus Alighieri, Steinbeck versus Hemingway, Dickens versus Tolstoy.

I love the way, when we make love, I can make her respond so vocally to me... she is usually quiet and gentle, yet her soul slips right out through those beautiful sounds in bed. Even then, some of the best lovemaking we partake in is the silent kind, when we don't need to say a single thing; when the communication is taking place on a different level altogether, when we are at one. Sometimes, the best love we make is absolutely silent. We need only breathe softly, me, sitting against the headboard, and Holly wrapped around me, leaning into my chest, the both of us sighing into each other's mouths.

And besides the wondrous connections that our bodies have formed, over these days, we only now truly begin to understand how deeply our emotional ties run. We are learning together to get along under the weight of more press, and attention for our relationship: both good and bad, but with some searing negativity from some who cannot get past the differences in our ages. But through it all, we stand with each other; we buoy each other up.

Especially, though, after what Tom said to me about the two of us, I cannot help looking at couples with children more than I ever have before, and pondering that in the silent darkness of my mind... How I would love to be a father alongside Holly as a mother.

On one specific afternoon, we are on an impromptu jog together through the park, and I find myself looking at one young couple pushing a child on the swing set. All of them are wrapped up in winter clothes, and I am so utterly distracted by the look of them, the pealing laughs of the child coming through the cold crisp air, that I don't notice until a few seconds later when Holly suddenly slips and falls on some black ice, scraping her knees and the heels of her hands badly.

She is achy for the next few days, because of how jarring the concrete path had been to her bones and muscles, and on those few nights, she is more fragile than ever, but I love her, still, gently. Though the pain of the fall ebbs quickly for her, though, it seems to me that the fall is meaningful beyond the literal event, and I come to feel, as Christmas approaches, more troublingly ecstatic than I have since my youth.

* * *

Most of our time is spent alongside Tom. My parents are content with each other, happy to finally be back in London, so we leave them for the most part alone, our intentions confirmed when they tell us "young folks" to go and "frolic" on our own. Tom is especially lonely this year, too, which encourages both Holly and I to keep him company—and it turns out to be anything but a chore. We spend a great many comfortable and cozy hours in his apartment watching movies or plays, doing nothing in particular, just relaxing and taking a break from the ridiculousness that is every other time of year.

The three of us go to see the lights of the city as the holiday grows nearer and nearer. Outside, Holly is shivering and perpetually cold, and she makes a point of telling me how I always seem to be so much warmer than her. "Biology has it in for me," she says at one point, her teeth chattering as she huddles against my chest, her hands in my pockets, my thumbs tracing her chilly knuckles. "I'm a woman, first of all, and I'm incredibly small on top of it. But—at least there is a hidden plus for people in love with constantly warm men, like you." And as we continue going on outings as the snow falls in drifts and carols jingle through the air, she finds every excuse she can get to cuddle close to me as we walk, both of us smiling cheekily, Tom sticking his tongue out at me whenever Holly is looking away (and, I'm sure, doing the same to he when I'm distracted). We feel like a miniature family, in ourselves.

* * *

On Christmas morning, she gives me the most beautiful gift I could ever ask for: a small, leather-bound journal and the best ergonomic and refillable pen I've ever used; a journal to write my thoughts in. "I was a little worried about it," she tells me, relieved when she sees the genuine grin on my face. "You have such beautiful thoughts; and I thought that this might be a cool new creative avenue for you."

"I love it," I tell her honestly. "I'll write in it every single day, without fail." And it's true—I've wanted for a while to try keeping a journal, but now that I have a true reason to, I'm overjoyed to receive such a thoughtful and well-timed gift.

I tell her that I left her present on her desk in the main sitting room, and she goes out in front of me, while I linger behind and fold my arms, leaning against the doorjamb, watching her tiptoe in her puffy socks across the floor. When she sees it, sitting in place of her computer on the desk she uses for her writing, the overhead light glittering against the black enamel of the keys and metal body, her hands go up to cover her mouth. Slowly, she pivots around and looks at me, her face red and full of surprise beneath her parted fingers.

"Ben, Jesus!" she says at length, shuffling back to me and hitting me playfully in the chest before we both go back across the room to further examine the typewriter. "Do you realize how inferior this makes me look?" She cries tears of elation and is so excited to start writing on it: we spend the next few minutes working out how to get it to work, and in under an hour, she's already clacking away like a professional; the warm and comforting sound of creation filling the apartment joyfully.

We share a tender kiss, and before long, we've found ourselves on the couch before a small fire that sends tingles skittering across our skin. Only a few minutes into our bliss, however, a knock comes at the apartment door, and it's Tom, loudly singing "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" from the other side of the door, knocking rhythmically, shaking what sounds like a handful of jingle bells as he does so.

"Sod off, Tom, we're busy!" I manage to shout in the direction of the door, and Holly, beautifully short of breath, chucks a stray shoe at the door, making Tom laugh loudly from the other side. We both laugh when we hear his galloping footsteps receding down the stairs, accompanied by the jingling of his bells, and a laughing cry of surrender.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all! So... here we are, a month later...
> 
> First and foremost, I hope that I didn't disappoint any of you by not giving you an in-depth chapter solely focusing on the premiere—I just felt that it would turn itself very quickly into an exhausting chapter for me, personally, and then, by extension, for you, the readers. For Ben to recollect the events of that night in hindsight (I think), made it a little more interesting, relevant, and less of a potential drag! Please forgive me if this was upsetting to you—my goal was primarily to keep things fresh and moving forward!
> 
> I have to confess that I really just loved Tom in this chapter... BOOKS! Need I say more? Fun fact: when I mentioned Tom and Holly having playful arguments pitting authors against each other, the inspiration for "Dickens versus Tolstoy" was based on an actual YouTube video that I stumbled upon, in which Tom was participating in this intellectual presentation pitting those two against each other... Basically, if you love Dickens or Tolstoy or BOTH (like me), then you NEED to see this video... it's pure awesomeness.
> 
> More of all three of these lovelies to come... Please continue to let me know how you feel about the story, or take a little leap of faith and reach out! I love hearing your feedback, it absolutely brightens my day! But if you are feeling shy, that is okay, too. :)
> 
> Thank you ALL for your commitment, in spite of this egregious update delay. I have a child returning to school with the remote method, and let me tell you, single parenthood is NO walk in the park right now.
> 
> Anyway... I WILL be back.
> 
> Une-papillon-de-nuit
> 
> 13 September, 2020


	17. URGENT MESSAGE TO READERS

MUST READ!

Greetings, readers! I am writing quickly to alert you that this story is being moved to the account On_Errand_Bad ! I have been having a problem suddenly with this account and have had to move all of my separate fanfictions account into one new secure one. So, again, if you want to continue reading this story you will need to find the account On_Errand_Bad either on A03 or on ff net. Please make this switch as fast as possible because though the title of the story will stay the same I fear you might not be able to find the story again if you don't. Please make this switch as fast as possible, because I will have to be deleting this story and this account imminently.

Thank you so much and I really hope everybody gets to read this before I have to delete it!


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